My Undivided Attention
by chrissie0707
Summary: Someone from the CSIs' past has been successfully rehabilitated and reincorporated into society. Fat chance. In other words, the stalker's back. Nickcentric, obviously. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_Author Note:_ I was never really satisfied with this story, feeling like I wrote a "whump for the sake of itself" fic, and I went back through, some five or years later, and did some editing and tweaking and am actually okay with what this story ended up being. I have done a little rearranging, and the 18 chapters I had before are now 11. Now, enjoy my token Nigel Crane returns fic!

* * *

_Chapter One_

He watched the doctor carefully, wary of reactions to some of the answers he'd provided. There was no reason to worry, of course. His answers were well thought out, calculated. Rehearsed. He'd been here long enough, watched and listened well enough to know exactly what to say to get out.

The doctor smiled and folded his hands on top of the overstuffed file on the desktop in front of him.

Good sign.

"Well, the results of your tests have come back, and they are outstanding. I really couldn't be prouder of you."

_More like proud of yourself, _he thought.

"You've come a long way," the doctor continued.

He put on his best smile for the doctor, who was sufficiently younger than himself. "I feel like I've come a long way," he said, with as much sincerity as he could muster.

He signed the required paperwork, committing to weekly counseling sessions and check-ups, and thanked the doctor, whose name he couldn't remember and couldn't care less to.

Nigel walked out of the rehabilitation facility in a completely different manner than when he'd walked in. No cops, no handcuffs. Just him. A taxi out front, not a police cruiser. An apartment waiting for him, not a suffocating cell. It was nice to know.

It was nice to know how easy it was.

* * *

The sun was just starting to set and while there was a bite in the air, it wasn't cold enough to keep the guys off of the court. It hardly ever was.

"Just say it, man. White men _can_ jump."

Warrick Brown held the worn basketball against his body and simply sighed, letting Nick savor his narrow victory.

The two were on their way back to Warrick's place from the public basketball court down the street. The court was a popular one in the otherwise quiet neighborhood, and they'd participated in a little two-on-two with a couple of seniors from the nearby high school before getting down to business themselves. Warrick had secured quite a nice lead for himself before Nick started to make some lucky shots.

Encouraged by his friend's silence, Nick Stokes grinned and mocked a jump shot. "Nothing but net," he said. "It was beautiful."

Warrick rolled his eyes and threw the basketball at his friend.

Nick caught it inches from his face and laughed. "Talk about a sore loser."

Warrick smirked. "Yeah, speaking of. You know you still owe me a buck from Thanksgiving? Broncos and Cowboys?"

Nick cocked his head like he was trying to remember, but it was a bad show. "I'm pretty sure it was only twenty."

"I'm pretty sure you're full of it," Warrick said with a smile as he trotted up the walkway to his front door.

Nick followed, grumbling about the football game.

When Warrick pulled open the door he was greeted with the new and often recurring aroma of a home-cooked meal, something he was really getting used to. With their work schedules it wasn't often that it was dinner, but Tina even went to the lengths to make him a nice big breakfast sometimes when he got home in the mornings.

Nick let out a low whistle. "You went to work," he said in an awestruck voice.

Tina leaned her head out of the open door into the kitchen and grinned at the compliment. She jabbed a wooden spoon in Warrick's direction. "Don't get used to this."

"Too late." He took a few long strides across the living room and gave her a big kiss.

Tina smiled again and pulled herself back into the kitchen. "Did Mr. Grissom get ahold of you?" she asked.

"What are you talking about?" Warrick asked. He and Nick flopped onto the couch and began a wordless argument over control of the remote. There was no way Nick was going to win, not in Warrick's house.

"He called looking for you. Said that he was going to try your cell."

Warrick frowned and dug into his pocket. Nick took advantage of the distraction and snatched the remote out of his other hand. Warrick glared and then turned to his phone. _Oops._ The screen read "4 missed calls."

"Must've accidentally turned off my ringer," Warrick said, flipping open the phone to call Grissom back. He turned to Nick. "Did he try to call you?"

Nick patted down his own pockets and frowned. "Damn. Must've lost it back at the court."

"Wouldn't surprise me, the way you two push each other around," Tina's voice came from the next room.

Nick sighed and pulled himself up off of the couch. "I guess I'll go see if I can find it."

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. And I'll call Gris back."

As Nick left the small house, Warrick punched in the speed-dial to Grissom's cell. The supervisor answered almost before it started ringing.

"_Grissom."_

Warrick almost laughed. The man had to know from the caller ID that it was Warrick calling, and was still just so…Grissom. "Hey, it's me. Sorry I didn't get your call, I accidentally turned the ringer off."

_"You're forgiven. I know it's supposed to be your night off, but I need you. Nicky, too."_

Warrick sighed. He'd had a feeling. No relaxing night off for him. Damn, and he'd had a few things planned...Tina was going to be pissed. "Alright. I'll get him and we'll be right in."

_"Thanks, Warrick."_

"You bet." He hung up and steeled himself for telling Tina. He could imagine see her disappointed expression well, as he'd already been cause for it more than he would like during their marriage thus far. When he turned around, however, her face held nothing but a sympathetic smile.

"Go on," she said. "Go do what you do best."

Warrick smiled. "I don't deserve you."

"No," she answered, moving back to finish cooking the now for-one dinner. "But you can try to make it up to me later."

* * *

Nick jogged back down the street to the court. He wasn't in a huge hurry, as the park had been deserted by the time they'd left, but he wasn't taking his sweet time, either. That was an embarrassingly expensive phone, and with his work schedule it was difficult to find a convenient time to get to the store to replace the thing.

The sun was almost fully set, and the lights lining the court had turned on. Nick shook his head, frustrated. It was going to be even harder to find his phone in the dark. He scanned the scuffed surface of the court, hoping that the dim light would catch the surface his phone and reflect back at him, but saw nothing.

Nick sighed and walked over to the rickety benches along the edge of the court. He knelt down and groped under each one, but came up with nothing.

"Damn it," he said, softly but angry enough. One of the kids had probably taken off with it.

Nick really didn't want to give up so quickly, but it was getting darker by the minute. He put his hands on his hips and frowned, taking in the whole of the court. When his eyes landed on the very artistically and tastefully decorated pay phone in the corner, a light bulb went on in his head.

He fished around in his pocket and victoriously came up with a quarter, punched in his cell number and looked anxiously around, not picking up the ring of his phone. When he heard himself asking to leave a message, Nick hung up the chipped receiver, slamming it slightly.

"Damn it," he swore again, louder this time. With a shake of his head, he turned and started back for Warrick's house, kicking an empty Coke can in the street on his way.

* * *

It was so much easier to watch people in the dark. Light and shadows, dark and darker – it all seemed to meld together so nicely. Natural concealment. Now, you see me…now, you don't.

He'd been nervous while the sun was still out. Low, but it was still light, and light gave you sight, and sight meant that you were exposed to someone. In the dark, they were exposed to him. In the dark, he was in control.

The dark made everything easier. It was easier for you to see them, but near impossible for them to see you.

_He didn't see you._

Easier to get in, easier to get out. Easier to distract.

"You didn't see me," he whispered to no one, only the cool night air, and clutched the thin cell phone tighter in his hand.

Now came the waiting. He'd done so much waiting already, the prospect of more didn't even faze him. It might have made a lesser man impatient and ready to jump, but not him. Waiting was cool; he had other things to keep himself busy. Always did find ways to keep busy. Found new places to stay. Made new friends.

And it was all easier in the dark.

A giggle started in the back of his throat, and Nigel couldn't hold it in any longer. He wasn't the one in the dark.

They were.

* * *

Gil Grissom got the call the next morning, the one he'd been dreading for four years. And it came days later than it should have.

He thought he'd told these goddamned "doctors" that he wanted to be kept informed. That he wanted to know what happened, as it happened. He wanted to be the first to know. He wanted to make sure that, if this moment ever came, he was the one who told Nick. He didn't want to risk it slipping unsympathetically from some gossiper's cursed mouth.

He hung up the phone, furious, and looked to Catherine, shifting anxiously from foot to foot on the other side of his desk.

"What was that about?" she asked as casually as she could, but her anxiety was thinly veiled.

Gil didn't answer, he just stared at her.

"When was he released?" Gil gritted out, stalking down the sterile white halls after a doctor who seemed much too young to have the power to accomplish what he so easily had.

"Three days ago," the doctor, Kendall, replied. His dry, professional tone betrayed no acknowledgement for the remote possibility he'd done something wrong.

"And why wasn't I informed until this morning?" Gil could hardly suppress his anger. He'd been keeping tabs on this man for years, had seen how crazy he was and for more than one reason had no desire to see him anywhere than behind cold, iron bars.

The judge had seen it differently. Gil had to admit, the district attorney had made quite the argument, considering what he had to work with. He'd delivered the ideal results for his client. They just weren't so ideal for the others involved.

Gil didn't think Nick had ever gotten used to the knowledge that Crane wasn't in prison, but they had told him numerous times there was no way the man was ever going to be stepping out of that facility without a police escort and days' worth of warning.

They were wrong.

Doctor Kendall moved into a small office and after allowing Gil to pass, shut the door. He raised a hand. "I can tell that you're upset, Mr. Grissom."

Gil raised his eyebrows, noticing how effortlessly the doctor avoided his question.

"You don't need to be. We're doing a good thing here," the doctor said, smiling, pleased with himself.

To Gil, he sounded young and naïve. He shook his head, disgusted.

Doctor Kendall didn't seem to notice. "We spend an extreme amount of time with our patients, working to reincorporate them into society," he continued.

"And what standards do you use to decide that these _criminals_ are capable of being reincorporated."

Doctor Kendall crossed his arms defensively. "Our _patients_ go through several weeks of tests and test scenarios with some of the most qualified psychologists in the area to ensure they are in fact cured."

"And how do you follow up on these treatments?" Gil's growing detest for the man was hopefully evident in the sarcasm with which he spat the word.

"Weekly counseling sessions," the doctor answered curtly.

Gil shook his head. "You really believe _counseling_ can take the murderer out of a man?"

"It has."

Gil couldn't keep his anger in check any longer. "How can you be sure? Some of these people don't belong back in society," he said loudly, pounding his fist on the desk for emphasis. His many years on the job had let him see the lengths to which people went to destroy each other. He had seen the horrific scenes that had come from the twisted minds of some of those kept behind the very doors of this facility.

The young doctor frowned. "It's a matter of opinion," he said stiffly. "Mr. Crane made a lot of progress here." Doctor Kendall moved around the office and sat at his desk.

"And what about the victims?" Gil exploded. "Or their families? Do you even think about the repercussions of letting some of these people out? They're criminals and they belong in prison!"

Kendall sat forward in his chair. "The patients here were not of a sound mind when they committed the crimes they were accused of. Once we purge their minds and personalities of the unstable mental capacities, they are just like you and me."

"I've never killed anyone," Gil said blandly.

"And neither has he," Kendall answered in the same tone.

Gil gaped at the doctor and shook his head.

Doctor Kendall raised his chin. "All due respect, Mr. Grissom, but I am the one with the medical degree."

"And all due respect, Dr. Kendall," Gil replied softly, "but at the moment, that doesn't mean a damn thing to me."

* * *

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

When Nick walked into the break room that night, he didn't even get a 'hello.' Warrick simply cleared his throat and extended his hand with an obnoxious smirk on his face, not even looking up from the case file he was reading.

"You're serious?"

"Hell, yeah. You tellin' me you wouldn't have made me pay up?"

Nick put on his best deadpan face. "No, because you're my friend and I don't want to feed into your gambling problems. I made the bet to channel your addiction, kind of like therapy, but I would never, _ever_, make money on your issues and send you on an inevitable tailspin."

Warrick stared at him a moment, and both men fought not to be the first to crack a smile.

Warrick lost horribly. He let out a laugh and shook his head. Nick smiled, knowing he'd bought himself some more time for Warrick to forget about the whole thing.

"You're paying me," Warrick said, jabbing a finger at Nick.

"Oh, yeah," Nick said, still in the same serious voice. He crossed the room and grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge. The guys were a little early for shift, and had a few minutes before Grissom and Catherine would come in and send them out again.

Warrick looked up as Nick sat across from him. "Any word on your phone?"

Nick shook his head. He was still really pissed about that. "No. I tried calling it again, but it didn't even ring. Straight to voicemail."

Warrick winced. "They turned it off." That meant they couldn't even attempt to track the signal. "You get ahold of the company?"

Nick nodded. "Yeah, they're going to watch for activity." He felt a little ridiculous, getting so worked up a cell phone, but he couldn't help it. It was just these stupid little things that made it sometimes feel like everything happened to him.

The clock on the wall slowly moved past eleven, and the room remained empty except for the two of them. At eleven-twenty, Nick stopped playing with his cheap replacement phone and cleared his throat to get Warrick's attention.

"We _are_ open tonight, right?" he joked.

Warrick glanced at his watch, then turned and craned his neck to see the wall clock. He shrugged. "Not our problem. We're here on time."

Nick leaned over the table and tried to read the file Warrick was so immersed in. It was hard, upside down, but he could deduce it was from the case they'd been called in on last night.

He frowned. "I thought we wrapped that up."

Warrick nodded. "We did. Something just isn't sitting right with me."

Nick was going to say something more, but a knock on the door drew both of their attention to Archie leaning as casually as ever on the threshold.

"Didn't you guys get the message?"

Both men shook their heads. "What message?" Nick asked.

"Grissom left a note for you guys at the front desk. You're supposed to meet everyone at the scene."

"You serious?" Warrick asked.

Archie nodded.

"Why didn't he call us and tell us?"

Archie shrugged. "He said that doesn't seem to work."

Nick sighed. So maybe they weren't early for shift. In fact, they were going to be incredibly late.

* * *

Catherine Willows grimaced as she noted the time on her watch. The guys were late. In fact, they were about twenty minutes past late. She could tell Grissom wasn't happy about it because he, too, kept checking the time, often times sighing, the last just shaking his head. But she knew that wasn't the only thing bothering him.

He still hadn't told her what the phone call that morning was about, just grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the building. When he returned, he was even more withdrawn than usual, quiet and angry, and hadn't really spoken to anyone. It was something serious, there was no doubting that, and it was killing her not knowing the details.

As discreetly as she could, Catherine pulled out her cell phone and held down the number three.

"Don't do it."

Catherine jumped.

Grissom was watching her with raised eyebrows.

She sighed. "Come on, Gil. Give them a break."

"They're grown men, Catherine," he told her in that overly-patient, nearly patronizing way of his.

"Okay," she said, only to pacify him and not because she agreed with him. She folded her phone and returned it to her jacket pocket, and resumed trailing her flashlight beam along the curb of the sidewalk.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," she sang softly to the bullet she and Greg Sanders, further on down the street, were searching for.

Her search was halted by a victorious cry from the young CSI. She looked up and aimed her light at him.

Instead of offering the bullet, however, he looked at what was in his hand and glanced at Catherine sheepishly. "Quarter," he said.

Catherine rolled her eyes but had to smile. These kids kept her young.

"Keep looking," Grissom said sharply.

Catherine frowned. He was sure in a mood, and it had to be due to more than Warrick and Nick's tardiness. Her curiosity was peaking.

"Yes, sir," Greg said softly with a salute.

Catherine shook her head, laughing lightly, and even Sara Sidle, across the street, coughed to hide her own laugh. Grissom gave the three of them his patented exasperated-boss look and turned back to the body that lay in the middle of the street.

Forever out to please Grissom, and taking the hint, Sara turned back to rummaging through her field kit for her fingerprint brush and powder.

If the mood had been lighter, Catherine might have made a joke about it, or at least given Greg the go-ahead to make one of his own, but there was something uncomfortably tense and frustrated coming from Grissom. She shrugged at Greg and the two continued their search.

Catherine walked a couple blocks along the sidewalk before pausing again, rubbing her hands together to warm them. She was justifiably frustrated. What a way to start the night. Body in the middle of the street, shot in the chest, through and through; the reason for their search. The temperature had been dropping notably in the past few nights and tonight, Catherine would even go so far as to say that she was cold. The guys were going to get it, and there was something on Grissom's mind that was making him an increasingly unpleasant person to be around.

Greg was still moving slowly down the other side of the street, sweeping his beam back and forth across the curb, but Catherine was getting the feeling that their search was pointless, at least at this time of night. The side street had no overhanging street lights, and the combined light from their flashlight beams and the headlights from the SUVs parked just on the other side of the crime tape wasn't enough to see something so small.

Catherine made her way back to Grissom and Sara, hovering around the body. Grissom was in conversation with David Phillips, and Sara was shining her flashlight near the feet of the victim.

"Gil," Catherine said, getting Grissom's attention. "We're not going to find anything in the dark."

Warrick and Nick chose this moment to make their entrance. The bright headlight beams flashed over them as the large SUV swung in beside the others.

Grissom smiled and jerked his head in the direction of the vehicle. "They will."

Catherine winced in sympathy. This was the kind of job he'd taken to handing to newly minted field investigator Greg, tedious work that usually involved trekking several, sometimes dozens of blocks through seedy neighborhoods looking for the minutest pieces of evidence.

Warrick jumped down out of the driver's side of the SUV and ducked under the tape. "Gris, I am so sorry."

Nick jogged to catch up with Warrick as they came up to the other criminalists. "Really, really sorry," he emphasized, pulling the strap of his camera around his neck.

"You didn't get the message?"

The guys shook their heads.

Grissom raised his eyebrows and stood, stretching his back. "That seems to be happening a lot lately."

Nick and Warrick exchanged guilty looks.

"Nick," Grissom said, much more quietly. "I need to speak with you when you back."

Nick frowned. "Where are you going?"

"The lab." And with that he moved past them, towards the cars.

Catherine was waiting for Grissom to tell the guys what he wanted them to do, but instead heard the engine of one of the SUVs roar to life. It was just like Grissom to leave it to her.

Greg jogged up to them, waving his flashlight. "Hey, guys. Is he leaving?"

Catherine shrugged. "Looks that way. Okay. Warrick and Nick, sorry, but you guys are playing bloodhounds."

Nick groaned. "How far?"

"We've been six blocks," Catherine answered truthfully.

Warrick craned his neck to see behind her. "You think this guy walked that far, shot in the chest?"

"There's no blood trail," Sara spoke up from where she was crouching at their feet.

It obviously wasn't the answer they were looking for, but Warrick and Nick set down their kits, got out their flashlights, and jerked their heads at the side of the street they would take.

Sara glanced up at Catherine. "There's almost no evidence here, Catherine. I think I'll just ride back with the body."

Though not overly pleased that Sara had taken it upon herself to decide her own tasks, Catherine had to agree with her. There really wasn't anything else they could get from the scene, not without that bullet. She nodded. "Greg and I'll go with you."

She turned to Warrick and Nick, moving very slow so as not to miss anything. Catherine knew them both very well, and if they found that damned bullet within the area she and Greg had already searched, they would never let them forget it. "You guys alright?"

Warrick raised a hand, which she supposed meant that he was fine, and Nick nodded. "Sure, sure, go ahead and leave us men behind."

Greg snorted, and the three of them went about collecting their kits.

* * *

Only five hundred feet from the spot the body had originally lay, Nick straightened. "You know what. This is pretty childish of Grissom."

He was in a bad mood, almost childishly so. Catherine, Sara, and Greg had left about an hour earlier, and Nick and Warrick had spent the time in near silence, concentrating on finding the bullet. It was slow work, but Nick knew Grissom well enough to know they'd better not return to the lab empty-handed.

Warrick also stood straight and popped his back, letting out a relaxed sigh. His warm breath could be seen in the cold night air. "What? Keeping us out here working in the cold just because we missed his message?"

His tone was dripping with sarcasm, and that made Nick feel better. At least he wasn't the only one pissed.

"What do you think he wants to talk to you about?" Warrick asked.

Nick shrugged. "No idea."

They continued again in silence, slowly moving out of the illumination from the truck's headlights. Nick lazily swung his beam around the curb and sidewalk. As he passed an intersecting alleyway, something sounding an awful lot like a laugh interrupted the quiet, startling him. He jerked around, his foot slipping on the curb, and he landed on his butt in the street.

Warrick laughed and jogged over, offering him a hand up. "Nice," he said. "I bet you're glad we're alone now."

"Shut up," Nick grumbled. He reached for Warrick's hand with his own left and his fallen flashlight with his right.

He was getting ready to shine the light down the alley when a glint against the curb caught his eye. He crouched and squinted. "Score."

With a latex-gloved hand, he reached out and snatched the bullet. He turned to Warrick and grinned.

"Nice," Warrick said again. "Let's get the hell outta here."

In their eagerness to get back to the lab, the eerie laugh-like sound was forgotten.

* * *

He couldn't hold the laugh in. It was just so perfect. It was just so easy.

"I bet you're glad we're alone now."

Alone?

But they weren't alone. He was there. Friends didn't leave each other alone like that.

Not real friends.

Friends didn't stand by quietly while you were led away in handcuffs. Friends didn't point you out as a murderer. As a stalker.

That was such a harsh word. He wasn't a stalker. He was a…watcher. An observer. These words seemed nicer. Friendlier.

Nigel was a good friend.

He waited to make sure the SUV had driven away before he moved a single muscle. There were things to be done now.

He wasn't going to leave his friend alone.

* * *

Gil had phone calls to make. A lot of phone calls. And it was all for nothing. Even those he really counted on had no good news for him. Jim Brass was no help. Judge Walters was no help.

Gil returned the phone to its cradle and removed his glasses. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. According to everyone he'd talked to, there was nothing he could do. The judge's orders had been carried out. The assessments of Crane's condition and mental health were all made by prestigious doctors. There was really nothing he could do about the situation. He was just going to have to live with this.

Except he wasn't the one who was going to have to live with it.

There was a hesitant knock on the door and Gil looked up.

Nick stood in the doorway, looking much like a kid in trouble. "You said that you needed to see me?"

Gil paused a moment. The guys hadn't taken nearly as long at the scene as he'd anticipated, as he'd _hoped, _and he hadn't adequately prepared for what he wanted to say. He was just going to have to wing it. He nodded. "Take a seat."

Nick walked slowly, like he knew something was up. He rested his arms on those of the chair and sat back, his right leg jiggling nervously.

Gil cleared his throat. "Did you find the bullet?"

Nick nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we dropped it off with Bobby." He jerked a thumb at the door.

Gil didn't have anything else in his arsenal with which to stall, so he cut right to the chase, folding his hands and leaning forward over the desktop separating them. "Nick, I have to tell you something. And you're not going to like it."

* * *

Nick felt numb. He sat there, hearing Grissom but not really listening. He hadn't actually heard anything the man had said after "Nigel Crane has been released."

He could still hear him, though, a low, irritating buzz in the back of his mind. He felt like he couldn't move his body, but his mind was a different story, was racing a mile a minute.

His initial reaction was to laugh. It had to be a joke. There was no way they would let that man out. It had been hard enough to accept the fact he'd been deemed clinically insane and wouldn't even be spending the time in prison he deserved. It had been hard enough to accept the fact there were people out there_ helping_ him. And now he was supposed to accept that he was out there again?

The effects were immediate. Nick already felt the anxiety creeping in. He'd been plenty nervous randomly over the past few months, but now he was overwhelmingly paranoid, feeling that he needed to look over his shoulder just to make sure no one was standing there. He was overcome with a sudden and intense desire to be doing something and to be doing it somewhere else than here in Grissom's office.

"Thanks, Gris," Nick said. His voice was quiet. He didn't even notice he'd interrupted Grissom, still talking. He stood and looked around the office, blinking slowly.

"Nick, if you want to talk to someone…"

Nick shook his head slowly. "No, I'm okay."

He turned and exited Grissom's office, leaving his boss with a bewildered, and not a little concerned look on his face.

Nick headed towards the ballistics lab to see what Bobby had gotten off of the bullet, only to be intercepted nearly immediately by Warrick, almost as though he was waiting for him.

"So what's up?"

Nick jumped, stepping back and bracing a hand against the wall of the corridor.

Warrick took a step back. "Whoa, you all right?"

Nick nodded and smiled uneasily. "Yeah, just jumpy."

"And for a good reason." Catherine came up to the two guys and put a hand on Nick's arm. "Grissom told me when I got back to the lab."

"Told you what?" Warrick looked between them.

Nick's smile quickly faded, staring at the unwanted hand on his arm, and he let Catherine explain.

"Grissom got a call from the facility Nigel Crane was sent to," she said quietly, so as not to attract the attention of others, for which Nick was grateful. "He was released three days ago."

Warrick's eyes narrowed. "Are you kidding me?"

Catherine bit her lip and shook her head. "No. They claim he's been completely rehabilitated." There was a look of disgust on her face.

Warrick was instantly furious. "So they're just dismissing the fact that he killed two people and attacked Nick?"

"They did that at the trial," Nick spoke up, his voice still much lower than normal.

Warrick's eyes grew sympathetic. "I remember, man."

Nick hadn't talked about it much after the trial. He'd felt betrayed by the very system he worked for, and it wasn't a good feeling. Everyone had attempted to be really sympathetic about it, get him anything he needed for a few days, but then they had let him ignore it, because that was what he wanted more than anything.

If you looked close enough, you could see the scar on Nick's forehead he'd acquired, but other than that it was as if the events of four years ago had never happened. Nick had pushed them so far into the back of his mind that most days he didn't even remember being thrown out of that window. On the days that he did remember, though, phantom pains shot through his wrist, and he took a flashlight up to his attic.

This had slowly gone from happening once a day, to once a week, to once a month, until he'd finally, thankfully reached the point he hadn't been up there in months.

And he had other phantom pains to distract him now.

But now, everything that he had overcome, everything he had been able to forget...he was feeling it all, all over again.

Nick unconsciously rubbed at his wrist, drawing the attention of his two coworkers. Catherine cocked her head, and Warrick clicked his tongue.

"Stop it, man," he said gently.

Nick became aware of the action and laughed nervously at himself. He folded his arms across his chest, and tried to think of the most polite way to ask the two of them to leave him alone for a while. The hallway was all of a sudden feeling stuffy, crowded.

Catherine chewed on her lip again. "Do you want to take the night off? I can talk to Gris – "

"No," Nick said forcefully. The prospect of a sympathy send-home cleared his head instantaneously. "No, I don't need that."

"Nicky – " Catherine started again.

He shook his head. "I'm just getting my life back together, Cath. I'm not going to let him rip it apart again."

Catherine smiled proudly, and Warrick thumped him on the back.

"Atta boy," he said.

Neither of them noticed he couldn't even say Nigel's name. Neither of them knew the attic was going to be the first place he went when he got home.

* * *

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

Sara held a hand over her mouth to hide a yawn so large the hand did absolutely nothing to conceal it.

Greg laughed as he entered the room. "Looks like you really need this, huh?"

He held a cup of coffee out to her, and Sara gazed up at him unblinkingly. "I love you."

"You only say that when you want something," Greg joked, but could feel his face flush. He coughed. "What do you have?"

Sara held up a hand as she took a drink from the paper cup. She made a face. "This is horrible."

"I'm not in the lab as much as I used to be," Greg responded defensively.

She handed him back the cup. "You need to teach these lab rats a thing or two about how we like our coffee around here."

Greg sighed and held out the cup he'd planned on keeping for himself.

Sara eyed him and took a sip. She smiled accusingly. "You've been holding out on me, Sanders."

Greg shrugged. "Field work doesn't pay as much as DNA."

Sara laughed. "And I'm supposed to believe that affects your coffee purchasing?"

"How's the case coming?"

Sara and Greg both turned to the doorway. Grissom had his eyebrows raised, and the question had been asked very pointedly.

"It's coming," Sara said, making a move for the files spread out in front of her.

Grissom stared at them for a moment longer before moving down the hall.

Sara and Greg looked at each other and laughed.

Grissom's head reappeared in the doorway. Thinking that it was because of them, they quickly stifled their laughter and made to apologize, but Grissom stepped in and shut the door.

"What's up?" Sara asked, taking another sip from Greg's cup, slapping his hand as he tried to grab it away from her.

Grissom sat on the edge of the table and stared at his hands. "I have to tell you guys something."

"What's going on?" Greg asked anxiously.

Grissom looked up, his face a perfect image of its stoic normalcy. The only thing giving him away was the faraway look in his eyes. "Nigel Crane was released this week."

Sara sat back as if physically struck by the words. "Released?"

"I didn't even know that was a possibility," Greg said.

Grissom shook his head. "I knew there was a possibility as soon as the judge sent him to that center instead the prison cell he deserved. The doctors there tell me that Crane has been cured and is no longer a threat to society." It was obvious he didn't believe a word he was saying.

"Does Nick know?" Sara asked.

Grissom nodded. "Yeah."

"Wow. How did he take it?" Greg couldn't believe the horrible timing of this. Nick was finally getting settled in to the routine of things, was finally getting back to being Nick again…and now here was something else throwing his life askew.

Grissom paused, and his eyes once again gave him away. "Not very well. I don't think he wants to worry us, though, so I don't expect him to really say anything about it. Just keep an eye on him, will you?"

Greg nodded. "Sure."

"Of course," Sara said. "Do they know where he is?"

Grissom shook his head. "Crane's a free man. As long as he shows up for his counseling every week, and doesn't cause any trouble, no one's going to be looking for him."

* * *

Nick stood outside the doorway of the break room, listening to others' speak so candidly about his affairs, and leaned his head back against the wall.

So that was it. That was all that the son of a bitch had to go through. Counseling? Hell, counseling wasn't even a punishment. It was help. This man was getting _help_ for killing two innocent people. Not to mention everything that had happened to him_._

_Don't let this get to you_, Nick told himself. There was always the possibility the doctors were right. The possibility Nigel really had been…not cured, but helped. Maybe he had no interest whatsoever in Nick anymore. Grissom had said that it hadn't really been about him anyways. Maslow's hierarchy of needs…biology and physiology, safety, belongingness and love, esteem…all pit stops on the road to self-actualization. Nick had taken Psych 101 in college, and all due respect to Grissom, but he didn't buy into that at all.

The guy had been _in his house_. Reading his emails, intercepting his snail mail. Watching him for God only knows how long. Nick sure didn't want to know.

He felt sick, and forced himself to stop thinking about it. Dwelling on the past, especially _his_ past, was not going to get him anywhere.

The first step to getting past this would definitely be to not let them see him slumped against a wall eavesdropping on their conversation with what Nick was sure was a very pathetic expression on his face.

He pulled himself away and went through the motions for the rest of the shift. Warrick did very well in his role as the best friend and kept people away from him, in a polite, discreet way. Nick knew that he was doing it, though, and appreciated it greatly, however silently.

When he pulled into his driveway the next morning after shift, he found himself sitting there in the truck, hands gripping the wheel, reluctant to remove his key from the ignition.

"This is insane," he told himself, aloud. In the car, alone. Which was also insane. _Grow up._

Nick hopped out of his vehicle and went first to the end of his driveway to the mailbox. The mail was late. Great. No Sports Illustrated magazine to distract him. Upon entering his house, he stopped in the doorway for just a moment. He sighed and shook his head, tossing his keys on the side table by the couch. He went into the small kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Tipping his head back to take a long drink, he found himself frozen in the middle of the room, staring up at the ceiling.

_Don't do it,_ he told himself. But even as he thought it, he knew it was going to get the best of him. Whatever it was. Curiosity? Anxiety?

Fear?

Whatever it was, it beat him, just as he knew it would.

Nick set the bottle on the counter and pulled open a drawer to his left. Rummaging through the plethora of items that make a junk drawer what it is, his hand eventually grasped the spare flashlight kept there.

Nick stood there, chewing on his lip. He really, really didn't want to do this. If he could keep himself from going into the spare bedroom and pulling down the steps that led up to the attic, if he could keep himself from giving in to that unnamed and undefined "it"…then Crane wouldn't win.

But Crane just seemed to keep winning.

Nick went into the extra room, the one that was never used and was dusty yet clean, reached up and pulled the handle on the door in the ceiling. The steps creaked down and he clicked on the flashlight, shining it expertly up into the small opening.

Hearing and seeing nothing, although what was he hoping to see in the dark, Nick placed a hesitant foot on the bottom step, once again eliciting a creak as the board held his weight. He kept the flashlight pointing upward into the inky black darkness. Shaking his head, disappointed in himself, he moved up the steps quickly, with purpose. Once his head poked out of the opening, he swung the light around the small space. Despite the chill outside, the air in the attic was hot and thick, not a combination Nick was necessarily fond of.

The attic looked just as Nick knew it would: empty, but for a few boxes. He rotated his body on the steps to check the smaller space behind him, a twinge running through him when he saw the four-year-old replacement boards in the floor over the living room, lighter in color and standing out in stark contrast, even in the dark.

No one had been up there.

Nick sighed, causing dust to rise around him, and lowered himself back down the stairs. He went back into the kitchen, tossing the flashlight none too gently onto the counter and it rolled to a sudden, loud, metallic stop against the microwave.

Nick stood humiliated, alone in his own kitchen. His head pounded from the stress of the day and he slowly rotated his neck, hoping to release the tense muscles there. Instead, his neck felt even more strained, his headache intensified.

_No, _he told himself, _don't you dare do this._ He was not going to slip back into being anxious and paranoid, a walking mess of stress twenty-four hours a day.

Nick's thoughts went almost immediately to the pills in his medicine cabinet. Just one was enough to help him relax.

Two would ensure some sleep.

* * *

A man couldn't rely on attic access forever. People got smart. They remembered. After years and years, they still remembered.

Well, he remembered, too. He remembered betrayal. He remembered being stabbed in the back by someone he thought was a friend.

Doctor Kendall was cool about it, or as cool as a doctor could be, he supposed.

"_I really believe in you, Nigel."_

He'd heard that one over and over again. That skinny, pale kid in a white lab coat hadn't known anything. He'd listened to the lies he was being fed, swallowing them like a tidy spoonful of Jell-O, nodding along and holding his chin like he was really listening.

But he wasn't a good friend. There weren't too many of those out there anymore.

He looked over the small space, not too far from where his so-called friend still lived. It was a short walk, and he'd made it several times over already. He couldn't risk staying too close for too long, though, which was the reason the attic was out. The attic was obvious. He knew Nick was smart, and he would figure that out eventually.

Here, he could still watch. He _was_ a technician.

Nigel looked over the small space, and small it was. Not too small, though. Just right. Not above, this time. Below. He smiled at the irony. He'd caught up on Nick's life.

And that ordeal had been _nothing_.

* * *

Greg cracked his knuckles nervously and the front desk receptionist shot him a warning glance. He swallowed and crossed his arms across his chest. He was horribly uncomfortable, and wasn't exactly sure what he was doing there. When Catherine asked him if he wanted to go for a ride, he'd figured they were heading out to a scene. Not hunting down Nigel Crane.

Truth be told, he figured Warrick would be the one to go looking for the man, not Catherine. But Greg must not have been the only one to think that, because Grissom had made sure that the other man had plenty to do around the lab, keeping too busy to even think about sneaking out. You had to give Grissom his due credit; he was smart. He knew what he was doing. And he always seemed to know what his team was doing. Whether or not he understood their methods and actions was another question all together.

Greg shifted from foot to foot, waiting outside of Jim Brass's office. On the other side of the frosted glass door, he could hear the heated conversation taking place between the CSI and detective. Despite the rising volume and the tone with which both were speaking, he knew they weren't yelling _at_ each other, but _with_ each other.

Greg was catching snippets of the conversation, enough to get the point that Catherine was trying to get an address out of Brass. And he thought he heard the words "restraining order."

A pair of officers walked past, slowing slightly as they, too heard the voices coming from the other side of the door.

Greg gave them a cheesy grin. "Yeah, I wouldn't wanna be Brass right now, huh?" he asked with a nervous laugh.

The officers gave each other a 'who is this guy?' look and continued down the hall, resuming their conversation.

Greg leaned his head back against the door and then banged it once, hoping to draw the attention of those in the room. "People are starting to stare," he gritted out, loudly enough for them to hear but not at a volume to draw any more looks. The door opened behind him and Greg took a stumbling step back into the office. He regained his footing and dignity and tugged on the lapels of his jacket.

"Thank you," he told Catherine, who was holding the door open, an amused expression on her face.

He looked across the room at Jim Brass, holding the phone receiver to his ear. "Just give me an address, Chuck. No, we don't have probable cause, but we're not trying to arrest the man." He threw his head back in frustration. "If he was in the phone book, I would look it up…can't you just give me the address? Thank you." He sounded more pissed than grateful.

Brass looked up to see both Greg and Catherine watching him. "I'm on hold," he explained with a small Jim Brass smirk. "Hey, Sanders."

Greg raised a hand and gave a small smile. Catherine swung the door shut and practically collapsed in the chair next to where Greg was standing. She seemed exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes that weren't necessarily unattractive, but certainly out of place on a woman who never let her hectic life get the better of her.

"Yeah," Brass said into the phone, and again spoke with whoever was on the other end of the line.

Taking advantage of Brass's distraction, Greg knelt next to Catherine. "Why am I here?" he asked her in a hushed tone.

She slowly turned her head to face him, and she didn't need to answer. He knew.

She turned to face him, and answered his question with the desperate look in her eyes. He was there because she didn't want to be alone. Greg had probably been the first one she'd seen. If he'd made it to the bathroom, his initial destination, it may very well have been Sara here with her. Though he wasn't exactly serving a specific purpose, Greg suddenly felt useful.

"Uh huh, uh huh…"

Greg looked up at Brass, scribbling furiously on a pad of paper.

"No black and whites, I promise. We're just talking, here." Brass straightened. "You've been a big help." He hung up and ripped the sheet of paper off of the pad. He held it out to Catherine.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he said as she rose to take it.

Catherine stared at the paper in her hand. "I just have to see him, Jim."

Brass nodded. "I know."

Greg felt like an outsider in the room. He'd been no more than a lowly lab tech when Nigel Crane had come crashing into the lives of the CSIs. He hadn't experienced any of it first-hand, just through Sara's and Warrick's stories and what he had caught from others' conversations in the lab. But what he did know was enough.

"Don't get any funny ideas," Brass said in a warning tone.

Catherine held up her hands. "I swear."

Brass shot Greg a quick look he immediately understood; he was supposed to make sure Catherine heeded his words. Greg gave a small nod.

Brass settled back in his chair. "I'd go with you myself, but I've got to work on some things for the sheriff."

Catherine didn't say anything, nodded. Greg knew she was eager to get going now that she had what she wanted.

* * *

Two pills really did do the trick. Usually a light sleeper, it took the shrill ring of his phone to wake Nick that afternoon. His home phone, of course. He still hadn't gotten the new cell number into full circulation yet.

The call was a friendly, much too chipper reminder of the court appearance he had the next day for a case he'd worked a few months earlier with Warrick. Court days were not his favorite. He hated sitting up on the stand in front of a room full of people staring at him, but even more than that he hated wearing a suit and tie; it just wasn't him.

Nick dragged himself out of bed and shuffled over to his closet. He only had a few suits, and none of them seemed ready to worn in public at the moment. He had a tendency toward laziness after a day in court and usually just hung the suit back up, wrinkles be damned. This seemed to the day he'd been wishing would never happen, the day when every suit was rehung and wrinkly, in dire need of laundering. He was going to have to make a pit stop to the dry cleaners on the way into the lab.

Nick made it all the way into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee before the news he'd received the night before managed to creep back into the forefront of his mind. He saw the flashlight still resting on the counter next to the microwave and shook his head. He couldn't believe how paranoid he'd been.

If Crane was still a threat, they wouldn't have let him out. They were doctors, and a medical degree had to at least mean _something_. Crane would have been treated and evaluated and put through tests and Nick was just trying to put himself at ease and it wasn't really working.

Really, he just wanted to get out of the house.

Nick knew what would work. Work. Throwing himself into his work had always kept his mind too busy to dwell on or overthink other things. And there were _a lot_ of things trying to get him to overthink them. He didn't mind going in early and given the circumstances, knew that no one was going to say anything about it.

He brought his coffee cup up to take a sip when a loud thud at the front door made him jump. The cup slipped from his fingers and crashed into the sink.

"Damn it," Nick said, annoyed with his clumsiness. He wouldn't normally jump so easily. Despite his best efforts, this was really getting to him.

Shaking his head at the sight of the porcelain shards now littering the stainless steel sink, he moved to the door, wondering about the sound.

Nick opened the door and found the day's paper on the stoop. Lately it had been coming around noon, and the kid had taken to chucking it at doors instead of tossing it in driveways. It never fazed him, he'd actually gotten used to the sound. Which meant that he was simply jumpy.

Nick picked up the paper and threw it onto the couch. He wanted out of the house more than ever now.

He mopped up the coffee now spilled on the counter and sink, threw away the pieces of the cup, took a quick shower, grabbed the suit and was out the door.

* * *

Greg rocked back on his heels while Catherine knocked on the door a second, more forceful, time. She let out an exasperated sigh.

"Maybe he's not home," Greg offered. _Or maybe he saw the police department issue truck in the street,_ he added in his head, not daring to speak the words at the risk of adding to Catherine's already tense mood.

Catherine knocked once more and after another moment of silence, took a step back to survey the area.

The address Brass had gotten had led them to an apartment on the second floor of a three-story unit. Not in the best part of town but not in the worst, the apartment building was small, and dark. Greg supposed that after not working for four years, it was the best Crane could do. He was slightly disgusted at the thought the center had probably gotten the place for him, or at least the money for somewhere to stay.

Catherine took a few steps to the left and leaned forward, looking in the window.

"I don't think he's here," Greg said, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets and looking around. If someone saw them standing outside the door, peering in the window, it would look fairly suspicious.

He tried to change the mood, maybe get Catherine to drop this idea and get the hell out of there. "What are you getting Nick for his birthday?" he asked.

Catherine shot him a look and turned her attention back to the window. She brought her hands up to shield the glare of the afternoon sun and peered in.

"Catherine," he started in as much of a warning tone as he dared.

She glanced up. "I'm just looking."

His curiosity getting the best of him, Greg moved to her side and leaned forward as well. Through a gap in the dark curtains, Greg could make out what appeared to be a couch and lamp, and further on in the background, the counter of a small kitchen.

"I don't get it," Catherine said softly, probably to herself.

Greg glanced sideways at her as she bit her lip and shook her head.

"His living conditions are different from the last time."

Greg straightened. "How do you mean?"

Catherine also stood and placed her hands on her hips. "Back then it was nothing but a computer and a chair. Everything was in the attic." She gestured to the window. "This is fully furnished."

She took a step back and looked up. "And he's on the second floor of a three-story building, so there's no attic." She didn't sound too happy about any of their observations. This new way of living suggested that the past four years really had changed Nigel Crane.

While this had the potential to be a good thing for Nick, it also meant that he wasn't in prison, and if he really was doing this much better, wasn't going to be again any time soon.

* * *

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

Working the shift and a half really did keep Nick's mind occupied, and he was even seen laughing with Warrick and Greg in the halls of the lab. He caught a few hours of decent sleep without the aid of a sleep agent and woke around eleven, actually feeling refreshed. The past few days had passed without incident, and no one was talking about it, and Nick was immensely grateful that this wasn't throwing him completely out of whack. He had put the flashlight away, not giving more than another minute of thought to what may or may not be in his attic.

Nick checked his watch. He was due in court at one, so he was going to have to rush to pick up his suit and make it to the courthouse in time.

* * *

Gil was not good at the paperwork part of the supervisor job, almost as bad as he was at the political part. He favored the field work, the science. Paper was not his forte.

Gil sighed and pushed the stack of files away. There would be plenty of time to finish it later. The sound of thudding footsteps drew his eyes up and he looked to the door to his office. He actually sat back in his chair as Nick barreled into the office, as he rushed right up to Gil's desk and laid his palms on the desktop.

"Nick, what – "

"It's him, Grissom. Crane. He's doing it again," Nick said in a rush, his voice low but slightly crazed.

Gil's mouth hung open. Nick's eyes were wide and his face seemed paler than normal. "Nick, slow down, what are you – "

"My dry cleaning, Gris. I went to pick up my suit for court today and it's gone, they gave it to some guy, it's him, Gris." Nick was talking a mile a minute. He straightened and began to pace in front of Gil's desk.

Gil slowly stood himself. He remembered the first time around, when Crane had started picking up Nick's clothes from the dry cleaners and wearing them. Nick's words were putting him on edge but it was his demeanor that was actually starting to frighten him.

Nick was still walking frantically back and forth in front of Gil's desk. It was a completely different Nick than the man who'd been in the lab just the day before.

"It's him, Gris," Nick whispered.

Gil reached out and placed a hand on Nick's arm. The man startled and jumped just enough to be concerning and paused in his pacing.

"Nick, calm down. It's not him. It's just a mix-up."

Nick laughed lightly and shook his head. He looked like there was something more he was going to say but was interrupted by a ring from the phone on Gil's desk.

Keeping an eye on Nick, Gil brought the receiver up to his ear. "Grissom. Yes, actually he is. He's right here." Gil held out the phone to Nick. "You have a call on line four," he said.

Nick swallowed unnecessarily and grasped the phone. "This is Nick Stokes," he said after pressing the button for the line.

Gil watched as Nick's face took on a confused expression, and then one that was slightly relieved.

"Okay, great. Thanks." His tone was anything but grateful, was embarrassed. He handed the phone back to Gil and started moving backwards, towards the door.

"Nick?"

Nick swallowed again and avoided making eye contact. "It was the, uh, the dry cleaners. Guy brought back the suit, got it by mistake." Nick continued to back out of the office. "Sorry, Gris. I'm sorry."

Gil began to shake his head, opened his mouth to tell him that there was no reason to be, but Nick was already gone.

* * *

Shadows in the night were easy to hide in. Shadows in the day were a challenge, but he still knew how to work them. He'd found a perfectly secluded spot around the corner of the deli from which he could clearly see the entrance to the dry cleaners. He had it timed perfectly, as well.

He brought the suit back in, and God, it had been hard to keep from laughing. And he waited. They would call Nick, and then he would come. He had to be in court at one, after all. He'd had Nick's schedule committed to memory for days.

Nigel smiled.

There he was. So predictable. The SUV pulled into the spot closest to the glass doors and Nick hopped out. He didn't remove his sunglasses as he went in the door, a sign that he was either embarrassed or unsure of himself, or both.

He had done that, had been the one to cause that look. And it wasn't even hard.

* * *

For the next few days, every time Nick saw Gil in the hallway of the crime lab he would either walk past quickly with his head down, avoiding eye contact, or simply turn and go back from where he came from. Gil hadn't even had the chance to talk to him.

Gil hadn't told anyone about Nick's near freak-out over the dry cleaning mix-up. He figured Nick wouldn't appreciate everyone focusing their attention on him, constantly inquiring as to how he was doing, if he needed anything…that was the last thing that Nick needed right now. It didn't stop people from doing it, but it was a less often occurrence than if the events of the other day were public knowledge. Nick just needed to get his head on right and relax. What he really needed was a day where no one would pay any attention to him, and he wasn't going to get that this day.

Knowing how Nick was still coming in unnecessarily early every day, the team had to gather in the break room extra early to beat him there for a little surprise birthday gathering they were sure he already knew about. Every year, for every one of them, they did the same thing. It was always a thoughtful and appreciated gesture, but no one was surprised anymore.

Nick held up the colorful tee and suppressed a laugh. It was definitely _not_ a shirt that he would ever pick out for himself.

"Well…thanks, Greg," he said. He stuffed the shirt quickly back into the box.

Warrick and Sara laughed good-naturedly and even Greg cracked a smile. Gil sat back in the corner of the room and took a sip from his coffee cup. It was nice to see everyone laughing. No one had said the words "Nigel Crane" in a few days, and though he knew that the whole thing was still bothering Nick, the younger man was doing a good job hiding it. Distractions such as this were helping a lot.

Sara shook her head and started cleaning up the ripped pieces of wrapping paper that littered the table. "You're getting so old," she said in a joking tone.

Nick smiled. "Yeah, laugh it up. You're right behind me."

A light knock on the open door made everyone look up. The front desk receptionist stood there, smiling uneasily as six sets of eyes stared at her. It certainly wasn't _their_ break room, but when the team was gathered, it sure seemed that way to others in the lab.

She held out a small, wrapped box. "This came to the front desk for you, Nick."

Nick gave her an easy grin and went over to take the gift. He thanked her and returned to the table. He studied the box, which wasn't small but wasn't necessarily large, and frowned.

"What is it?" Warrick asked, jerking his head towards the present.

Nick shrugged. "There's no tag."

Greg smirked. "Ooh. Secret admirer."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Nah, I doubt that."

"Well, open it," Catherine smiled and bumped him with her elbow.

Gil saw Nick's eyes flicker his way; it was like he was asking for permission, but didn't wait for any show of acknowledgement from his boss. He ripped open the paper along the side and balled it up, tossing it at Sara without looking at her. She glared and stuffed the wad of paper into the trash bag she was still holding.

Gil frowned at Nick's reaction as he stared into the box. It was as if he'd lost the ability to make any kind of facial expression. His face fell completely slack and his eyes were unblinking. One at a time, the others in the room noticed his somewhat vacant stare as well.

Catherine was watching his face with a frown matching Gil's own, and Sara had started coming around from the other side of the table.

"What's up?" Warrick asked, frowning and leaning over the tabletop.

Nick didn't seem to hear him, and Gil was growing concerned, especially when Nick's rate of breathing increased. He leaned forward in his chair and put down his coffee cup. He could have been moving more quickly, maybe should have been, but his instinct was to study whatever specimen may be before him.

Catherine reached out a hand to Nick's arm. "Nick?"

Judging from his reaction to her touch, you would think her fingers had shocked him. He jumped and the box fell from his hands, thudding to the table. Out of the open top rolled a plain white coffee mug, nearly identical to the one the Gil had just placed in front of him.

Nick continued to stare at the cup while the others in the room exchanged confused looks.

"I don't get it," Greg said slowly.

That was when Gil noticed the slip of paper that had fallen out with the cup. He reached out and picked it up, his hand passing through Nick's line of sight, seeming to snap him out of it. Nick looked up, not meeting the eyes of anyone else in the room, and shook his head.

Gil turned his attention to the piece of paper in his hands. _I know you're short one...Happy Birthday._ He had to agree with Greg; he didn't get it, either.

"Nick?" he asked. "What is this?"

Nick shook his head again. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and shaky. "A few days ago, I broke a coffee cup." He looked around at them. "I was home. Alone." He looked back down.

Gil laid the paper out on the table.

"Nick…" Catherine frowned.

This time, when Nick looked up, he was angry, his face set. "Print it," he said.

Warrick made to say something, but Nick didn't give him the chance. "Print the damned cup," he gritted out.

Catherine was closest, using a piece of wrapping paper to keep her fingers from touching the surface of the mug. She hurriedly left the room, Greg leaving with her, and Nick sunk into his chair. Sara sat down next to him and rubbed his shoulder. He visibly tensed at the touch.

Warrick shook his head. "It's not him, man."

"Then what is it?" Nick asked, practically yelling. "What is that about?" He gestured to the paper Gil was studying. "Who would know that?"

The last question was asked in a much quieter tone, and no one left in the room had an answer for him.

* * *

Catherine rushed straight to Jacqui's workstation and thrust the coffee cup at her.

Jacqui looked up at the two wide-eyed CSIs and sat back in her chair. "What's going on, guys?"

Catherine didn't know what to say. She just held the cup out. Thank God for Greg, because he seemed to be much calmer.

"We need to see if there are any prints on this cup, Jacqui," Catherine heard him say from somewhere on her left.

Jacqui took the cup and started to set it aside. "I'll get to it when I can, guys, but I've got a ton of stuff to print for Swing…they've really got a hell of a case – "

"Jacqui." Catherine had to dig deep down inside herself to find her voice. "Please."

There was something in her tone that concerned the lab tech. Jacqui immediately pushed aside what she was working on and examined the cup. "I'll get it back to you as soon as I can," she said.

"Thank you," both Catherine and Greg said.

The two CSIs started back for the break room. Catherine was anxious to get back to Nick, but Greg seemed to be lagging behind. She turned and glanced back at him.

Greg stopped walking and crossed his arms. "Do you think…" it was as if he couldn't even voice the concerns they were all having.

Catherine shook her head. "I want to say 'no,' but…"

Greg nodded in understanding. He shook his head and stared at his feet. "God, the guy can't even catch a break on his birth – "

He was cut off by yells coming from the break room. They exchanged looks and rushed down the hall, coming to a sudden stop in the doorway.

"This is bullshit, Grissom!"

Nick was yelling at Grissom, who was holding his cell phone to his ear. Sara had a hand on his arm, trying to calm him, and Warrick was staring at Grissom with an expression much like Nick's.

"He's positive?" Warrick asked angrily.

Grissom nodded his head calmly. "Brass had someone sitting on the apartment all day, Nick. He never left."

"It was him!" Nick yelled and slammed his hand onto the table. They all watched him.

"Thanks, Jim," Grissom said and closed his phone. "He's going to go over there right now and talk to him, okay?"

Nick laughed uneasily. "Yeah, yeah, this is all _okay_."

"Nicky, why don't you take the rest of night off? You're not going to be able to work like this."

Nick looked over at Catherine as she spoke. His face retained its angry expression for just a moment before fading away, his shoulders sagging. He simply shrugged, and looked away.

Catherine knew it wasn't something he really wanted to do, but Nick wasn't going to be able to concentrate on any case this worked up. Besides, they could work on this easier without him in the lab, as well.

Nick started to say something, and Catherine knew what he was going to say before he spoke. Thankfully, so did Warrick.

"You don't have to go home, man. Tina's off tonight, you can stay at our place, if you want."

Nick nodded after a moment. "Okay. Thanks."

"You want me to drive you?"

"No. Nah, I think I can handle that." It wasn't said sarcastically, but flatly. Nick looked around at the forgotten pile of gifts. He rubbed his face and gestured to the table. "Thanks for this, guys." It seemed hollow, now.

Everyone nodded and Sara gave him a quick half-hug.

"I'll call Tina and tell her that you're on your way over," Warrick said.

Nick nodded.

"We'll figure this out," Grissom said.

Again, Nick nodded, but it was half-hearted, like he didn't believe him. He left the room a few minutes later, looking somewhat lost, and the rest of the CSIs were left staring at each other.

* * *

The hidden microphones were really starting to pay off. So much so that he didn't even mind how expensive they'd been. He still had some money saved up from before his little hospital stay, and had already blown nearly all of it in only a few days.

It was worth it.

"_You don't have to go home, man. Tina's off tonight, you can stay at our place, if you want."_

That was all Nigel needed to know. In his ventures the past few days, he had seen the Brown house, the recently acquired Mrs. Warrick Brown. She wasn't a tall woman, and would be easy to subdue.

It wouldn't be long, now.

* * *

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

Jim pulled his Ford Taurus to the curb and slammed on the brakes. He got out of the car and hurried over to Officer Taggart, dressed in jeans and a tee and leaning on an older model Mustang across the parking lot, partially concealed by the dumpster. The officer jerked his head in greeting and ducked behind the dumpster.

Jim jogged, as well as he could, over to the spot. "You're sure he never left today?" he asked. He'd asked this question at least three times on the phone already, but he wasn't taking any chances with this. It was Nick.

The officer nodded. In any other situation, he might have been agitated at being asked the same question over and over, implying he hadn't done his job properly, but just like Jim he knew there was no screwing around here, not when one of their own was involved. "Yeah, the neighbors came and went, but nothing moving from 209."

Jim peered up at the second story row of windows of the apartment building and nodded. "Alright. Thanks, Chase. Stick around out here."

Officer Taggart nodded and leaned back against the car.

Jim turned and started to leave, but stopped and looked back. "Do you think he saw you?"

The officer shook his head. "No, I checked it out before I came over here. Can't see back here from the second level. Not where his unit is, anyway."

Jim nodded again and headed for the stairwell that ran up the side of the building. When he got to the ninth apartment, he found himself hesitating. It was strange, but he pushed it aside and knocked authoritatively on the door. "Mr. Crane? Las Vegas PD," he called.

There was movement inside, and Jim heard slow footsteps coming towards the door. His fingers wanted to reach for his gun, but his brain told him to stop. The door opened, and the person standing in the doorway was a completely different man than the one he'd personally wrangled off of Nick and arrested four years earlier.

Nigel Crane was still shorter than average, that was something that couldn't be changed, but he no longer wore glasses, and seemed to have a much neater and more put-together air about him. His hair was freshly washed and neatly combed, his face clean-shaven.

"Can I help you?"

Jim was taken aback with just the sight of him. The last time he'd glimpsed the man, Crane had been a rocking, mumbling mess, obviously out of his mind.

"You said something about the police?" Crane prompted. He didn't appear to remember the officer that had tackled him in Nick's house.

Jim regained himself and stood straighter. "Detective Jim Brass. I have a couple of questions to ask you."

Crane seemed surprised but nodded, holding the door open for the detective to enter the apartment.

Jim took a moment to survey the area. "Looks like you've settled in here, Mr. Crane," he said as his eyes took in the small apartment.

What he could see was neat and tidy, nothing like Crane's last accommodations. The small living room had both a couch and easy chair, positioned around a small coffee table and pointed at a TV set, just as Catherine had said. It looked a normal, however sparsely furnished, living room. The adjoining kitchenette area was also neat. The counter was clean and there were already a few take-out menus pinned to the refrigerator door with magnets.

Crane nodded with a small frown. "I have, thank you." He motioned for his visitor to take a seat on the couch. "I wanted something a little homier after living in a hospital room for four years."

"Sure, sure," Jim said, taking a seat.

Crane settled across from him. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Jim was once again taken aback by the man, this time by his politeness. That, and also because he didn't seem even the least bit crazy. He shook his head. "No, thanks. This should only take a few minutes."

Crane nodded in an annoyingly understanding way. "What can I do for you?"

Jim got right to the point. "Tell me, Mr. Crane, what have you been doing to pass the time in the past few days?"

Crane frowned at the question but answered easily enough. "Nothing special. The center set me up with the apartment, but I had to buy food and things. And I've been looking for a job."

"Any takers?" Jim asked, somewhat coldly.

"No, not yet," Crane answered in an affronted tone.

"Well," Jim continued, sitting back, ready to let the first punch go, "have you happened to take a walk past the crime lab? Maybe Nick Stokes' house?"

"No, of course not," Crane answered forcefully. "I would never do that. I had wanted to tell Nick…Mr. Stokes…that I was sorry about everything that happened, but Doctor Kendall told me that wasn't a good idea. That I should just stay away from him."

Jim leaned forward, his most intimidating face set. "And have you?"

"Stayed away from him? Yes. I swear, I don't think I even remember where he lives."

"You don't _think_ you remember?"

Crane leaned forward as well. "Detective Brass, I know you all must think that I'm the same guy I was when those…unfortunate events occurred. I'm not. The things I did back then are regrettable, and I am truly sorry for any pain that I may have caused the people involved."

Jim wasn't impressed. "Pain that you may have caused? You killed two innocent people and attacked a member of law enforcement. You threw him out of a window."

Crane looked down. "As I said, I'm truly sorry."

"Words don't mean much in situations like this, Mr. Crane."

Crane's head snapped back up, and his eyes appeared dark and cold. "Can I help you with anything else, Detective?"

"No, I think that'll do for now. I'm sure you'll be seeing us again." Jim stood and moved to the door.

Crane stood as well and went to open the door for the detective. Jim gave the obligatory "thanks for your time," but he didn't mean the words, and they came out flat and monotone.

Crane smiled and nodded and then shut the door neatly in his face.

Outside the apartment, Jim stood a moment, frustrated and confused. The guy had obviously changed. He seemed…normal. Sane. And like he was telling the truth, and that wasn't what Jim had wanted. He wanted something on this guy so he could be locked up in a small, cold cell where he belonged.

Jim pulled out his cell phone as he started down the stairs and dialed Grissom's number. He repeated the conversation for the CSI, and told him that Officer Taggart was going to be staying outside the apartment, still keeping an eye on Crane.

Jim sighed. There was nothing else they could do at the moment. And it sucked.

* * *

"Thanks, Jim," Gil said. He closed his phone and set it on the table. He looked up into four sets of wide, unblinking eyes, and shook his head. "Apparently, Crane claims he hasn't been anywhere near the lab or Nick's house."

"And Jim just believed him?" Warrick asked angrily.

"Warrick, all we can do is ask the questions, you know that. We don't have a warrant, we don't – "

"Then why don't we get one?" Warrick shot back.

Catherine glanced at him but kept quiet.

Gil shook his head slightly and sighed. He knew how much this was getting to all of them, but he was still expecting a little support from his team.

Greg and Sara also remained quiet. In fact, once had Gil hung up with Brass, the CSIs just sat around the table, quiet, unsure of what to do next, each with their own thoughts. And none of them good thoughts.

They sat like that until Jacqui stepped into the room. She had put a rush on the cup when Catherine and Greg brought it to her, and checked for prints quicker than anything she'd ever worked on before.

Sara saw her coming first and nearly leapt out of her chair. "Anything?"

Jacqui looked around at the anxious faces and shook her head. "Nothing."

"No prints or no matches?" Gil was quick to clarify.

"No prints."

Catherine shook her head angrily, Sara sank back into her chair, Greg looked away and Warrick slammed his hand on the table. "Damn it!"

Everyone looked at him for the outburst. Warrick stared back at Gil. "What the hell is going on here, Gris?" he asked.

If only he knew.

* * *

Tina Brown studied Nick from across the living room. He hadn't said more than two words to her since arriving at the house. In the relatively short time she'd known him, she knew enough to know this was very unlike him. He'd been over for several meals, always lively and vibrant and keeping her husband smiling. He was good for Warrick, who tended to run the extremes of both hot and cold.

Nick was now sitting just as silently, staring at the TV screen, though she doubted he was really following what was going on. Tina wasn't exactly following what was going on either. Not just on the program, but out in the real world. All she knew was that something was wrong, and whatever it was, Nick wasn't taking it very well. Warrick had been short on the phone. Not with her, necessarily, just with the situation, whatever it was. He hadn't really told her. He just said Nick was coming over for the night and to try and keep him occupied and calm.

She tried all right. She offered to make him something to eat. She asked him if he wanted to go out and do something. She tried to make small talk. For every offer, he smiled a small polite smile and said no, thank you, he was fine. As a last result, Tina turned on the television and channel surfed. They had settled on some late afternoon courtroom show.

She glanced up at the wall clock in the kitchen and saw it was nearing seven. It was time for food of some kind, and a small grumble in her stomach seconded that. She looked back over at Nick, who was still staring at the TV set, idly playing with the tassels on a pillow from the couch.

"Well," Tina said, lightly slapping her hands on her thighs as she rose from her chair.

Nick looked over, seeming surprised by movement in the room, like he had been spacing out altogether.

"I think I'm gonna order a pizza."

Nick looked at his watch and grinned tightly. "Sounds good to me." A sentence with four whole words. Now they were making progress.

"Great," Tina said, returning the smile, and headed into the kitchen for the phone. "What do you feel like? Plain old cheese? Something more?" She bent to rummage in the bottom drawer, pushing things aside to find the phone book.

A knock on the door sounded before he could answer, and Tina frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone to come by. Nick glanced at her questioningly and she shrugged, heading for the door.

She looked through the peephole and squinted. "It's a man," she said, reaching for the doorknob.

For some reason, those three words seemed to shoot a spark through Nick. He jumped up off of the couch, the pillow in his lap flung carelessly into the side table, jostling the lamp.

"Wait," he said, but she was already opening the door.

Tina had barely turned the knob when it was ripped from her hand. The door flew inward and impacted harshly with the wall as she stepped quickly out of the path of the swing.

The man on her front step was no taller than herself, still holding out the hand he'd used to push the door open. He was smiling ear to ear.

"Hi," he said, stepping into the house. "Is Nick here?"

As Tina gaped at the stranger who would have the nerve to come barging into her house, something was tugging at the back of her mind. Something that was telling her this was not a good man.

He turned and surveyed the living room. Tina followed his gaze and saw Nick visibly cringe away from his look. It was just for a second, though, and then an unfamiliar fury overtook his features.

"Get the hell out of here," Nick said in a low, even tone. He moved closer to where they were standing in front of the doorway.

Tina started slowly backing up. She knew the layout of her own home, knew that directly behind her was the kitchen counter and, more importantly, the phone sitting on top of it. If she could get to it…

The short man cocked his head. "Is that any way to greet an old friend, Nick? I thought we'd talked about manners."

"Get out of here," Nick said through clenched teeth. "Just go, and nothing will…" He took a step towards the smaller man but was stopped in his tracks when the intruder pulled out a gun.

His smile had faded.

Tina gasped, but she didn't seem to be this man's primary concern at the moment. Nick's uncharacteristically threatening expression was replaced with one Tina really couldn't place, a mix of fear and fury that was extremely out of place of his face, and he held up his hands.

"Put that down, Nigel," Nick said.

_Nigel?_ Tina knew that name from somewhere, but couldn't really remember where. It was a name from a story Warrick had told her. When it hit her, she started reaching for the phone a bit quicker.

Thankfully, Nigel wasn't paying any attention to her. He stepped further into the house, away from her and towards Nick, who was taking his own steps back into the living room. Leading this Nigel away from her. He was putting up a pretty good front, but it was clear that he was afraid of the smaller man. It might have just been the gun.

"Don't talk to me like you know me, Nick," Nigel said in a scolding tone, almost as though he were berating a misbehaving child.

He seemed to debate something in his head, but it only took a second, and then Tina heard the loudest bang that she'd ever heard, like a firework had gone off in the living room, followed by a grunt of pain.

She jumped and squeezed her eyes shut, afraid for the sound to be what she feared it was. Terrified, she peeled them open again to see Nick holding a hand to his side, bent over and glaring daggers up at Nigel.

Tina's mouth fell open and, forgetting all pretenses of stealth, she hungrily grabbed up the cordless phone.

"You see, Nick, we talk and we talk about manners, and you're still just as rude as ever, aren't you?" Nigel punctuated the question by bringing a knee up into Nick's chin, knocking him back onto the floor.

Tina managed to get the numbers '911' punched into the phone, but the beeping of the buttons being pushed was louder than she'd anticipated. She didn't have time to react before the man swung around with the gun and struck her across the side of the face.

* * *

"So, what's the plan?" Catherine finally asked, breaking the tense silence.

It was now only her, Grissom, and Warrick in the room. Sara and Greg had been sent out to a scene. They weren't happy about it, but work had been bound to come into play at some point. It was technically still Swing's shift, but the CSIs were all wrapped in a quadruple homicide, so Grissom had ever-so-graciously offered up two of his own. Sara had not gone willingly, and Greg had made a crack about leaving the serious stuff to the grown-ups.

"Well," Grissom said slowly, "there's not much we can do without any real evidence against – "

"Oh, come off it, Gris," Warrick stated loudly. He couldn't keep it inside any longer. "Damn the evidence, this is Nick!'

"Do you think I don't know that, Warrick?" Grissom returned in an uncharacteristically venomous tone.

"Guys, guys," Catherine stepped in. "Fighting is not going to accomplish anything."

Warrick rubbed his face. "You're right. I'm sorry, Gris, I'm just so worked up over this."

"We all are," Grissom said, and started to say something else when his cell phone started ringing. They were always getting interrupted.

He picked up his phone and studied the screen. "It's Brass. Probably has another case. Grissom," he answered.

Warrick watched as Grissom's face fell even further than it already was. "Call us _the second_ you get there." He snapped his phone shut and tossed it on the table, shaking his head. "Damn it," he said softly.

Unaccustomed to hearing Grissom utter even a single curse, Warrick was put instantly on edge.

"What is it?" Catherine asked.

Grissom's eyes met Warrick's and he could feel his heart pick up a faster pace. Grissom looked away, and that was not a good sign.

"There was an incomplete 911 call from your house, Warrick."

Catherine's jaw dropped and she sat back in her chair.

"What do you mean 'incomplete'?" Warrick managed.

"The call went through, but before anyone said anything, the line went dead. I'm sorry."

Warrick shook his head, and began to pace the small room with heavy, frantic footsteps. _No, not Tina. _"Don't even say that. It's gotta be a mistake." He ran a hand roughly over his face. "What am I – I gotta get over there."

"Brass is going over there now," Grissom said with his standard issue air of authority. "He's going to call when he gets there."

Warrick sat stiffly in his chair, staring at Grissom's phone, willing it to ring. Catherine was rubbing his shoulder, but it wasn't even really registering in his brain. All he could think about was how it had been _his _dumbass suggestion for Nick to stay at his house. And now there was not only the possibility that something had happened to his best friend, but also to his wife. If that had happened…

This was the one time that Warrick was happy that his train of thought was interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone.

"Jim?" Grissom nodded. "Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker." He pressed a button and set the phone down in the middle of the three CSIs.

Warrick stood and hovered over the phone, his hands flat on the table, bracing his arms.

"_Someone was definitely here. Door's open – "_

"Is Tina okay?" Warrick asked, feeling his palms start to become sweaty. Next to him, Catherine stood as well.

"_She took a jab in the cheek, but she's awake. She's gonna be alright, medics are with her now."_

Warrick was pissed but still breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't something worse. "What about Nick? How's he doin'?"

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Warrick looked up and met the wide eyes of Grissom and Catherine. Catherine's lips parted and her eyes never moved from the phone.

"Jim?" Grissom managed it before either Catherine or Warrick could.

_"He's not here, Gil. He's gone."_

* * *

"What in the _hell_ happened?"

The loud and angry voice of Jim Brass was unmistakable as it floated – or crashed – through the halls of the crime lab.

Grissom, Catherine, and Warrick rushed out into the hall to meet him as he came in. A few steps behind the detective, who was red in the face and yelling into his cell phone, was Tina, walking slowly with an icepack to her face and an officer at her side.

Warrick pushed past his supervisors and embraced her, kissing the top of her head. "You okay?" he asked her quietly, and the voices of the others in the hall receded to a dull, unimportant buzzing in the background.

Tina nodded but there was a frightened look in her eyes. Warrick moved the icepack from her cheek and his lips parted as he took in the angry mark there. A dozen curses raced through his head, and he gently replaced the ice.

"I tried to call for help," she said quietly, her voice cracking.

"Shh," Warrick said, attempting to comfort her. "You did good. Otherwise, we wouldn't have known anything had happened."

"He's right," Catherine said gently.

Warrick looked over at her. He hadn't realized anyone else had been listening. Not only were they all listening, but watching the exchange with wide eyes, probably hoping Tina could tell them something about what had happened at their home.

The only person otherwise engaged was Brass, who had taken a few more steps down the hall and was still yelling into his phone. "Where's Taggart, huh? He was supposed to be watching the son of a bitch. What do you mean you can't get a hold of him?"

All eyes in the hall immediately turned to the captain. Catherine sighed and Grissom turned his attention back to Tina.

"What happened?" he asked in a voice he probably thought of as his soothing voice, but still came out somewhat cold and businesslike.

Tina hesitated. Warrick put his arm around his wife's small shoulders and found himself unable to look her in the eyes. He knew something was about to come out of her mouth that he wasn't going to like.

Tears formed in Tina's eyes and Warrick guided her to a chair. She glanced up at him gratefully but quickly averted her eyes. "I didn't know what he looked like. I – I answered the door and he just came in. He had a gun."

This was news to them, and not the good kind. Even Brass hung up with whoever he had been on the phone with and took a few heavy steps towards their small crowd.

"Did he use it?" Warrick asked, placing a hand on her knee.

She nodded slowly and a few tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes. She took a couple deep breaths and collected herself. "I couldn't see…I don't know how bad it was."

Catherine crossed her arms and looked away. "We have to do something. _Now._"

Warrick looked up at her and Grissom, whose face looked something like a frown, but there was something else altogether in his eyes.

"I left an officer at your house, 'Rick. It's, uh, it's ready for you guys."

Warrick's eyes moved to Brass and he nodded at the implication. His house, their home, was now a crime scene.

Brass's phone rang and he retreated to a quiet corner to take the call.

Grissom straightened. "Warrick, you and Catherine head over there. I'll call Greg and Sara and tell them to go over to Nick's house."

"What are you hoping to find there?" Catherine asked, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Ideally, nothing. But when are we ever faced with an ideal situation on this job?"

"What are you going to do?" Warrick asked.

Grissom's eyes darkened. "I'm going to Crane's apartment."

Brass returned, closing his phone, and sighed. "That was Officer Taggart," he said ominously.

"The officer that was supposed to be watching Crane?" Catherine asked, her forehead furrowed in confusion.

Brass nodded. "He just came to…with a bump on the head and a missing gun."

* * *

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

"You should have let me drive," Sara said, staring out of the windshield.

Greg glanced sideways at her and pressed only slightly harder on the accelerator. "We're not going to do Nick any good wrapped around a telephone pole, Sara."

She sighed, and brought her hand up to brush a few stray hairs from her face. She was trying to keep as cool as she could but inside, she was a mess.

The two had been processing the scene they'd been sent to, maybe banished to, in near total silence. As soon as Sara's phone rang and she saw Grissom's name on the screen…she had known something was wrong.

Sara's heart caught in her throat when she saw the street sign announcing their arrival at Nick's neighborhood. She was happy Grissom had sent her here as opposed to Warrick's house or Crane's apartment. She didn't know how she would handle herself there if they had to process the evidence indicating Nick had been hurt.

Greg steered the SUV to the curb and pulled to a stop behind the police cruiser. The officer came around to the vehicle to meet them.

"Either of you guys have a key?" he asked. His tone was solemn.

Greg nodded and held out his key ring. The officer took it and started for the front door while Sara and Greg pulled their kits from the back of the truck. Sara prayed she wouldn't need anything inside.

After the officer opened the door and confirmed that Nick's house was empty, the two CSIs entered. Sara didn't know if it was the gravity of the situation, but Nick's clean and usually comfortable living room now seemed empty and cold.

"What are we looking for, exactly?" Greg asked, pausing in the doorway.

Sara turned and looked at him. "I don't know. I guess anything that would suggest Crane was…up to something." She didn't know a better way to put it. She didn't want to voice the possibility that Crane had been watching Nick again.

Greg's eyes went to the ceiling. "You think we should…" he gestured to the ceiling.

Sara bit her lip. She really didn't want to. "Yeah, probably the first place we should check."

Greg nodded. "Okay." But he didn't move.

"Greg?"

"Yeah." He took a stiff step into the house and started down the short hall to the bedrooms. "Attic access is…" he pointed into a room on the right side.

Sara nodded. "Yeah, I think."

There wasn't any thinking involved. She remembered the layout perfectly, knew exactly where the attic was. She couldn't get the images of processing Nick's house four years ago out of her head, couldn't believe she was here doing it all over again.

Greg went into the room and Sara heard him pull down the steps to get up into the attic. She looked around the neat living room. It was weird being there for the second time to process, and she didn't know where to start.

She solemnly pulled on a pair of latex gloves as she did a quick walkthrough of the small house, coming to an abrupt stop when she glanced in the bathroom. On the counter was an amber prescription bottle. Sara picked it up and read the label, and her eyes moved up to the medicine cabinet door. She opened it and her heart fell at the sight of a half a dozen other plastic bottles.

Greg appeared in the door and leaned on the frame. "There's nothing up there, thank God. What's that?"

Sara lifted the bottle in her hand. "I didn't even know he was still taking any of these."

"Maybe it's old," Greg suggested, but his tone betrayed that he didn't believe it.

Sara rotated the bottle so he could read the label. It had been refilled only the week before. Greg sighed and Sara gingerly set the bottle back down.

They moved back into the living room and Greg looked over things in the kitchen while Sara started randomly flipping through the mail on the table by the door. She picked it up and turned, something catching her eye across the room. The setting sun was coming through the slits in the blinds just enough to hit the bookshelf across the room and a glint flashed on the edge of a picture frame. A wooden picture frame.

Sara frowned and walked over the bookcase. Her mouth fell open when she picked up the picture and studied the frame.

* * *

"Grissom," Gil brought the phone to his ear without even looking to see who was calling. At the moment, it wasn't important.

_"Grissom, you are not going to believe what I'm going to tell you."_

"No, Sara," he answered, gaping at what was in front of him. The bedroom in Crane's apartment seemed perfectly normal, except for the huge bank of monitors that covered one wall. An image of Sara's face with a backdrop of Nick's living room filled one of the screens. "I think I will."

* * *

Warrick crouched next to his couch and brought a hand to rub his forehead. He'd been prepared to see his living room tossed. He wasn't ready for the sight of the bloodstain on his carpet.

Neither was Catherine. "Oh, God," she breathed from behind him.

Warrick reached out and swabbed the stain. "It could be nothing, Cath." He said it for no other reason than to try and comfort her. He was scared.

"Tina said he had a gun and he shot Nick, do you really think that this is nothing?" By the rising volume and pitch of her voice, Warrick could tell Catherine clearly was, too.

Warrick couldn't answer her. His eyes were focused on the wall behind the couch, and a spot on that wall.

Catherine's phone rang and she answered it, stepping back towards the front door, and Warrick went over to the wall. He pulled out a pair of tweezers and carefully extracted the bullet. He heard Catherine's footsteps returning behind him and slowly turned, holding up the bullet for her to see.

She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, they were sad and angry. "That was Gil. The bastard has cameras set up all over Nick's house."

Warrick's hand dropped to his side and he felt his own temper building up. "How did he manage that?"

Catherine shrugged, angry tears starting to fill her eyes. "I don't know. He was out of that hospital for three days before any of us knew about it."

Warrick slammed his hand onto the wall. "Son of a bitch," he said softly. "How the hell did he get that kind of equipment so fast?"

Catherine shook her head. She opened her mouth to answer but nothing came out.

Warrick turned back to the wall, leaning his head on it. "What's he trying to do?"

* * *

Nick groaned and brought a hand to his head, hissing as the action caused a sharp pain cutting through his side. He quickly pulled his hand away and frowned at the sticky substance on his fingers. Blood.

_What in the hell... _Nick groggily pulled himself into a sitting position, eliciting another stab of pain and he quickly put a hand to his side. He was somewhat surprised when he saw the dried blood already on his hand. He looked down at the stain on the side of his shirt and it hit him.

Crane had kidnapped him. Hit him. _Shot _him.

"Oh, God," he breathed.

"You're fine," a voice said. "It only grazed you."

Nick's head shot up, eyes darting around the space, his eyes trying to adjust to the dim lit, trying to take it in. It was too dark to get a good look; all he could see was the silhouette of a desk or table of some kind, and there he could make out the shape of the gun. He could also see the outline of the other person in the room. Seeing that person both pissed him off and scared the shit out of him.

For the moment, the anger decided to be the one to take over, giving Nick a rush of energy, and he swung around to face Nigel Crane, despite the pain it caused. "What in the hell is the matter with you?"

The words seemed to have the desired effect on Crane. He looked lost. "Come on, Nick," the man said in an innocent, almost pleading tone. He stepped forward out of the shadows of the small room. "I just wanted us to be friends."

_The why in the hell did you shoot me? _he thought furiously. Nick had to hold his hand to his side as he rose angrily and glared at the shorter man. "Then call on the phone. Knock on the fucking door and say 'hello'!" he yelled, bending slightly.

Nick was shaky and unsteady on his feet, but he couldn't help but smirk at the surprised, even hurt expression on Crane's face. That expression was all too quickly replaced with a show of anger that trumped his own.

Nick wasn't quick enough to move out of the way as Crane picked up the gun and took a couple big steps towards him. After the gun slammed into the side of his face, the smirk turned into a grimace.

He fell back on the couch. After the second hit, he began to rethink his words.

After everything went black, he didn't think about anything at all.

* * *

After Gil had ended the call with Sara, he turned to a horrorstruck Jim Brass, who had entered the room at some point during the short conversation, and shook his head in disgust. They'd been optimistic, hoping for the best…but this was not the best in any way, shape, or form.

Gil had told Sara about the bank of monitors, and she'd gone through Nick's house, finding the corresponding cameras. He could now see her saddened expression as she located a camera from somewhere on his kitchen counter. He watched as she bit her lip, looking into the lens. Her expression hardened and her hand disappeared over the screen and it went black.

Gil closed his eyes and sighed. "Any idea how he got out of here?"

"Yeah." Brass motioned for Gil to follow, and they went into the other bedroom.

Brass jerked a thumb to the open window. Gil frowned and crossed the small room. He leaned out the window and looked down at the rusty sliding ladder attached to the side of the building.

"Old building. With a fire escape."

Gil looked back sharply at Brass as the detective spoke.

Brass averted his eyes. "Didn't know about that."

Gil's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything. He pulled out his cell to update Catherine and left the room.

* * *

For the moment, actions on their part were restrained. Brass was in charge of the acting, and Grissom was in charge of the uncovering. Warrick would have much rather been working with Brass. Anything beat sitting in the conference room, listening to the constant buzz of rapid-fire conversing going on out in the halls.

They'd divided and searched, and now he, Grissom, Catherine, Sara, and Greg were left to share with each other their findings, each as horrible as the next.

"A fire escape," Catherine repeated in a dull voice.

Grissom nodded.

Warrick figured this bit of information had contributed to Brass's absence in the room. It was a major slip-up on his part. The lone officer watching the front of the building wouldn't have seen him leave that way, which was exactly what had happened.

All this did was add more fuel to the fiery anger growing with rapidly increasing speed inside Warrick. Sitting around talking was not going to help Nick. He wanted to get out there and do something. But that wasn't their job.

"I found five cameras," Sara said in a hollow voice. It was first she'd spoken since they entered the room.

"Yeah, they were pretty well hidden." Greg sat forward and spoke quickly, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Bedroom, bathroom, living room, kitchen, and uh, one outside, by the front door."

"Did anyone figure out how he got them in there?" Grissom asked.

"Or got them, period?" Catherine added.

Greg looked at Sara, as if to see if she was willing to add any more to their discussion, but she only stared down at her lap, and so Greg looked up at the others again with an uneasy smile.

"Yeah," he said. "We talked to a couple of Nick's neighbors. 'Meter reader' was out a few days ago, apparently."

"But how did he get into the house?" Grissom asked with a frown.

Greg shrugged. "I guess we're assuming he's been watching Nick since he got out…probably found out where the spare key was hidden."

Now Warrick had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach to compliment the rising anger. He sat back in his chair and all eyes in the room were drawn to the movement. Even Sara looked up. It wasn't due to the simple fact he'd moved; it was now his turn to report on their findings at his house.

Warrick sighed. "Tina was right," he said, his voice nearly catching on the thought of this happening in his own home, with his wife there. "Cath and I found a bullet, and blood."

"DNA confirmed it was Nick's," Catherine added quietly.

No one spoke for a long moment. Warrick knew everyone was desperately thinking of something to say to comfort the others in the room, but apparently no one could think of anything.

"You found the bullet," Grissom said slowly, finally. "So if Nick was shot, it was a through and through. Maybe not too bad."

Everyone contemplated that for a moment, but the logic of the statement did little for Warrick's fried nerves. He needed to do something.

His eyes went automatically to the muted television set bolted to the corner of the room. "They put out a bulletin on Crane yet?"

Catherine nodded. "Yeah, and believe me, every available officer is out there looking for him, Warrick." Her voice was warm and soothing, but just as with Grissom's reliable logic, it failed to calm him.

"I sent the video equipment to Archie. He's going to trace the feed, see if it was sent anywhere besides the apartment." Once again, Grissom spoke, drawing everyone's attention back from their thoughts and to what they needed to be thinking of as a case. It was the only way they were going to get through it.

"And what do we do until then?" Greg asked, his eyes wide, obviously anxious and feeling a need for action, just like Warrick.

Warrick glared at Grissom and waited for the response to come. He knew what it would be. Grissom met his eyes, and shook his head apologetically.

"We wait," Warrick said bitterly, answering Greg's question for him.

* * *

The crime lab was in total chaos. When news like this got out, it spread, and it spread quickly. It seemed as though every single officer, CSI, and lab technician had heard about what happened, and was dealing with it by cramming the halls of the lab and talking about it. Talking about it loudly.

The constant chattering was not comforting to Catherine as she pushed her way out of the conference room and down the hallway to her small office. The team had silently left the room and headed in opposite directions. Grissom went to the A/V lab to check in with Archie and Crane's surveillance equipment, Greg and Sara went to see if Bobby had found, by some miracle, any trace, _anything_ from the bullet Warrick brought in that would clue them into where Nick might be. Warrick, himself, wanted to check on his wife, and no one blamed him. And Catherine just wanted to be alone for a minute.

As she dodged elbows, she reined in the desire to mow people over and stared straight ahead, focusing on the quiet isolation the small office would provide. She needed to be alone with her thoughts, needed a moment to collect herself.

Catherine never made it to her office. She could feel Conrad Ecklie's presence before she actually saw him coming, sensed the dark cloud of doom he brought with him. Refusing to let the thought of him get to her, she continued to plow through the mass of arms and legs and was intercepted only a few feet in front of her office door.

"Catherine," he greeted her, crossing his arms. "What are you going to say?"

Catherine frowned up at him. "About what?"

Ecklie laughed as if to say 'Oh, Catherine.' It wasn't necessarily cold, just the way he was. "To the press."

Catherine gaped at him.

"Oh, come on," he continued, realizing she seriously wasn't thinking along the same lines he was. "After what happened last summer, they're going to be all over this."

"Are you kidding me?" Catherine asked loudly, taking a step forward. "I have a lot on my mind right now, but I can assure you that I am not thinking about the _press_."

Ecklie held up his hands defensively. "Catherine, I know you care about Nick, and you're worried, and I am, too, but – "

Catherine found herself taking another step forward, and Ecklie taking a surprised step back. "What's Nick's brother's name? Or his favorite color?" She paused and got nothing but silence in return. "No? Then don't stand there and tell me that you care about what happens to him. You care about the lab, and you care about yourself," she said, her voice loud and straining and full of all of the tension and stress of the day.

If Ecklie was hurt by her words, he recovered in less than a second. The fact that Catherine was yelling at him in the middle of a crowded hallway, and embarrassing him, didn't help. Anger clouded his face. "Gil may let you get away with a lot of things, Catherine, but you cannot talk to me like this, no matter the circumstances. You're suspended for a week."

Catherine drew in a breath. She may have said something she'd regret. She may have said something _he'd_ regret, but Grissom entered the picture, drawn from the A/V lab by their loud voices.

He stepped forward and immediately cut off whatever it was Catherine was going to say, and she was mildly disappointed that she would never know what it might have been. "Conrad, I know you don't mean that. We're all stretched a little thin, and it's understandable, and I think cause for a little room."

Ecklie rolled his eyes as if to say 'of course you do' and sighed, but it was a resigned sigh.

"Besides," Grissom continued, once again using his famous wise-and-logical-Grissom voice, "If we're going to find Nick, we're going to need everyone."

Ecklie studied him for a moment, his face set, and nodded. His gaze turned to Catherine, his mouth a thin line. "I'm sorry, Catherine."

Catherine paused a moment, not really wanted to accept the forced and meaningless apology, but in the end managed a nod. After Ecklie turned and walked away, she turned and stared at Grissom, mouth open and eyes wide.

"What?" he asked.

"You said 'if.' 'If' we're going to find him."

Grissom cocked his head, his eyes betraying a deep regret for his word choice. "I was speaking hypothetically."

"You were speaking hypothetically about Nick," Catherine said quietly, and walked past him into her office before he could say anything further.

She shut the door and leaned back against it, bringing her hands to her face.

* * *

It wasn't exactly the nap Nick had needed during his busier than usual work schedule of late. For one thing, it took way too long for him to get his eyes open. For another, he was definitely not rested or relaxed. He wasn't sure what exactly brought him so quickly back to consciousness: the slam of the door or the stab of pain in his middle. He forced his eyes open, and after the stars faded from his vision, he once again pushed his hand against his side and sat up.

_Too quick_. Nick groaned as his vision momentarily grayed. He moved his free hand to his head, which was not feeling too well. He immediately cringed at the gummy feeling of drying blood under his fingers. The sudden movement of sitting up made him queasy, too, and he sat still, both to wait for the world to stop spinning, and to listen for any sign that there was someone else was in the room with him.

When Nick heard nothing but his own labored breathing, he allowed himself to lean back on the couch he'd been sprawled on, possibly thrown onto. His left hand was starting to cramp from the force of holding it so tight to his side, and Nick braced himself and looked down.

There was barely any light coming into the room, but when he removed his hand, Nick was still momentarily sickened at the sight of so much blood on his shirt, a black stain in the dark. Nick pulled gingerly at the hem, and the material lifted away from the wound with an even more nauseating sucking sound.

Crane had been telling the truth; the bullet hadn't hit him square-on, but had still succeeded in taking a sizeable chunk out of him. Whether he'd missed on purpose or it was due to his inexperience with firearms, Nick didn't know, and honestly didn't care at the moment. Pulling the shirt away from the tear had caused it to bleed again, and Nick had nothing with which to staunch it. All he could do was let his shirt fall back down and hold his hand to it again.

After another long moment of sitting, Nick's eyes began to adjust to the dimness of the room as they frantically scanned the dark for a way out. They sought out the outline of a window on the wall opposite from the one where he was. He frowned. It was high in the ceiling. _Basement,_ he thought, sighing at the knowledge that there was no way he was going to be able to hoist himself up that high, not with the wound in his side.

Nick quickly scanned the rest of the small room: dark ceiling, dark walls, some kind of big shape against the far wall, and a sliver of light coming out of the bottom of a doorframe.

This is what he focused on, and he sucked in a breath before staggering to his feet. It didn't take quite so long for the world to right itself this time, so he took a shaky step across the room. He'd be damned if he just sat, helpless, in some dark room and waited for that son of a bitch to come back.

One thing was for certain, Grissom was getting one hell of an 'I told you so' when he got back to the lab. Something panged in Nick's chest, a sense of panic he'd fought tooth and nail to rid himself of, and he gulped. He _was_ getting out of here. Wherever 'here' was.

Nick had taken only four slow and painful steps across the room when the door that he was heading for creaked as it started to open.

* * *

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

It was eerie, like something straight out of a cheap horror movie, and really made him feel like a complete ass, paralyzed in his tracks, waiting for the creaking door to swing open in slow motion with a shrieking violin accompaniment and reveal the killer.

Nick cringed. _ Bad choice of words, Stokes._

He swallowed and took a giant step back. He wasn't completely immobile, and that was a start.

Suddenly, it was as though everything in that dark and dank, cramped little basement really did dissolve into slow motion. In the second and a half it took for the door to open, Nick had all the time he needed to come to a decision.

He had a lightning-fast flashback to the last time he'd found himself face to face with Crane. Not the first time he'd woken in this forsaken room; not in the courtroom, not through the three inch thick glass separating the interrogation and observation rooms of the Las Vegas Police Station…but the climactic confrontation that had taken place in his living room four years ago, the two of them crouched over the body of an innocent bystander, caught in the crazy, chaotic crossfire of his life.

Nick had felt just like this: scared, though he'd never verbalize it. Not just a simple startled in the middle of the night by an unidentified sound scared…it was this paralyzing, bone-chilling fear creeping through his limbs and rendering him physically helpless, though his mind was fully active and screaming curses as his own lack of action.

Maybe he could have done something more for that man, Morris Pearson. Seriously, how _stupid _of him to not notice there was someone hanging out in his house. If he'd been just a little more observant, maybe he would have caught Crane sneaking around before anything had escalated that far. Before anyone had gotten hurt, himself included.

He wasn't going to leave that option open this time around. He was going to get out of there and make damned sure Crane made his sweet way to where he should have gone in the first place: prison.

Nick was through being the victim. He was sick and tired of sitting, or lying, around waiting for someone else to take action. He was over being held back or kept down. The slowly oozing wound in his side wasn't so bad he couldn't play through it.

Nick felt his legs twitching, anxious. He was ready to run, though a tiny voice in the back of his head was telling him that he completely out of his mind.

When the figure appeared in the doorway and stepped into the room, Nick gave himself enough time to suck in a giant breath, then ducked his head and charged towards the shape. The odds were on his side, despite how achy he was. He didn't even consider the possibility Crane might have the gun on him. He cleared the distance in only a few steps and looked up just in time to see only the rough wooden plank of the wall in front of him.

Nick put up an arm to keep himself from crashing into the wall, unable to stop his momentum at this point, and bounced off, rolling to the side, the fact he was mere inches from the open door not making it through the thick muck his mind had become.

"Now, seriously, Nick. What did that accomplish?"

Nick stared down Nigel Crane, standing a few feet away with arms crossed and a smug expression on his face. He noticed the one thing that made him feel his odds were even better. No gun.

"Do you really think I didn't figure you would have tried _something_?" Crane continued and laughed. "I gave you _way_ too much credit," he finished with a venomous smile.

"What do you expect?" Nick asked icily, gesturing to his head. "I'm not exactly thinking too clearly."

"Yeah," Nigel said, taking a step forward, encouraged by Nick's passivity. "I wish I could say I'm sorry, but it was your own fault. You shouldn't yell at me like that." He grinned crazily. "I'm not sure how stable this thing is," he said, pointing a finger at his head.

_Great,_ Nick thought, wishing he could sink back into the wall and disappear. _This guy's not just a little nuts, he's completely lost his mind. _Nick felt the sensation on his arm of a light rush of air and his eyes flicked to his right.

Crane saw the faint movement, and both men moved at the same time.

Nigel launched himself at Nick as he bolted for the open door. He had his hand on the edge of the door, trying to get out and pull it shut simultaneously when Nigel's weight hit him in the middle of his back. His hand was ripped roughly from the door as the two slammed to the hard floor.

Nick was winded for only a moment before he threw all of his weight to the right and flipped over, trying to fling the smaller man from him. Instead, Crane used the momentum to stay attached to Nick and clung to his arms as Nick furiously worked to throw him off.

"Get off!" Nick yelled, kicking out with both legs, catching Crane somewhere unseen that caused the man to "oof" and throw a frustrated fist in the direction of Nick's face.

His head knocked back against the concrete floor as he dodged it and he winced. Crane laughed and took the opportunity to drive an elbow into Nick's gut. He instinctively curled up and gasped, not understanding the strength with which Crane was fighting him. The only thing he could think of was that the man was afraid of going to prison if Nick got out and led the cops to him. Any other reason made him nauseous, and he was already feeling that. Nick couldn't conjure a reason as to why Crane had come into the room at all. To talk to him? Yell at him? Kill him?

Crane gripped Nick by his short hair and flung his head back onto the floor once more. This time caused Nick to see a few spots, and it took him longer than he would have liked for them to disappear.

Taking advantage of Nick's momentary daze, Crane crouched, grabbed Nick's ankles and started to drag him back into the center of the room.

As soon as Nick felt the pressure on his legs and his back scratching across the floor, his mind cleared just enough to react and he kicked out as best he could. He pulled himself up into the best sitting position he could muster with both feet lifted in the air and lashed out with both arms, catching Crane across the face.

"God _damn it_!"

Nigel released Nick's ankles as he stumbled back and Nick rolled immediately, struggling to stand. He had one foot planted with all of his weight on it, his leg shaking slightly, proof enough that his energy burst was fading fast, when he was hit from behind as Crane threw himself at Nick's back once again.

Nick's foot slipped as he was face-planted into the floor, not getting his arms out in time to catch himself. He did manage to turn his head to the side so that his left ear absorbed most of the impact. A sharp ringing accompanied the few star-shaped bursts of light that exploded in Nick's field of vision.

_Ow,_ Nick thought, and the pain was enough to force him to lie still for long enough to encourage Crane even more.

He kicked Nick once in the side, causing him to groan, a sound he couldn't hear himself make over the ringing in his head, just felt the air exit his lungs, and he felt more than heard the few footsteps across the room.

"I can't let you go, Nick," Crane said.

Nick barely heard the words, and what he did catch sounded like it was working its way into his ears through a thick field of cotton. He rolled carefully over onto his back, quite aware of the tenderness of his stomach as he stretched out. He squinted across the small room at Nigel's figure.

Crane leaned in the doorway, rubbing the side of his head. Nick smiled to himself. At least he'd inflicted a bit of pain himself.

"Doctor Kendall always told me the same thing, Nick. Over and over again." He spoke as though they were old friends, which supposed was how Nigel saw their "relationship," and not like he'd just beaten a fairly large chuck of crap out of him.

Nick glared at Nigel from the floor. His limbs felt as though they wouldn't move if he begged them to, and he didn't even bother. He rested his pounding and seemingly heavier than normal head against the cool cement and focused his attention on Crane and not on what felt like something warm and wet sliding down the left side of his face and neck, or his stomach and chest, aching with every intake of air, or his ankle, throbbing an oddly rhythmic twinge.

"Over and over again." The ringing was starting to fade, and Nick could hear Nigel's voice really was quiet this time, as though he were deep in thought.

Crane laughed lightly, like the two were in conversation. "He says I have to face it, you know? I have to face it head on, and get it out of my system." Crane smiled, and the look of it made Nick feel sicker than ever before. "I don't think he had anything quite this extreme in mind, but what can I say? I'm an overachiever."

Nick began to breathe quicker as his mind raced to catch up with what Crane was suggesting.

_Face it._

_Get it out of his system._

_Extreme._

Nick swallowed and started to slowly push himself up off of the ground. "Nigel," he said quietly but as firmly as he could. Authoritatively, like speaking with any suspect.

Crane shook his head and took a step back, gripping the knob to the door tightly. "I just wanted to let you know. Maybe if you had been a better friend, it wouldn't have come to this." Nigel started to pull the door shut. "It's your own fault, you know."

"Nigel, wait," Nick said, his voice curiously stronger as his fear intensified.

With a look as icy as a blizzard in the cold heart of winter, Crane pulled the door shut.

Nick could see the shape of his feet outside the door, and could hear Crane's words as he said to himself, "I just need a little more time."

* * *

Catherine wasn't about to be told to hang around the lab and wait all day, not with Nick out there somewhere. Safe from the gloom and doom, and threats, of Ecklie and the reprimanding eye of Grissom, she passed the time in her cramped office wisely, calling Brass and then the same judge that he'd been working on only days before for Crane's address.

Something had been weighing on Catherine's mind all night, and she had to only briefly relay the happenings of the night to get the court order for Crane's medical records. She wanted to know more about this therapy he'd undergone for four years, because it obviously hadn't had the desired results.

Catherine pulled on her jacket and stood behind her closed door, listening to the foot traffic and hushed voices moving around on the other side. She was not in the mood to talk to anyone. When the footsteps and voices receded, Catherine hurriedly pulled the door open and took a step out into the hall, only to step smack into Warrick's broad chest.

He eyed her with an amused but weary smile as she stepped back, mouth open in surprise. "Hey, Cath."

"What are you doing out here?" she asked, feeling an embarrassed blush race to her cheeks. "Lurking?"

Warrick's grin widened and he jerked a thumb down the hall. "Heard about what happened, think everyone did, actually, and figured you were hiding out in here, just waiting for the chance to make an escape."

Catherine gave him a small smile as her shoulders sagged. "You know me too well."

"Yeah, I do. Where you headin'?"

Catherine adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder. "I just got a warrant for Nigel Crane's medical records. I need to pick it up and then I'm heading over to that center."

Warrick motioned for her to start walking with him down the hall. "Yeah, I know. Grissom just called to get it and Brass told him the judge had already written one."

Catherine cast him a suspicious glance. "Then why did you ask?"

Warrick didn't meet her eye. "I wanted to see if you'd tell me the truth."

Catherine swept her bangs off of her face defiantly. "I'm not going to rush out there on my own, Warrick. Truth be told, that's something I'm worried _you're _going to do."

Warrick raised his eyebrows, surrendering to the truth of her statement. "I guess Gris is a little worried about the both of us. He told me to stick with you." He sighed as they exited the building and headed for one of the SUVs that littered the parking lot.

"Don't get me wrong," he continued, pulling his keys from his jacket pocket. "He's one hundred percent right. There's nothing I want more right now than to…" the words trailed off as a look equally saddened and angry came over his eyes.

Catherine smiled understandingly as she hopped up into the cab. "Me, too."

"And yet," Warrick said with a defeated sigh. "The PD does their job…"

"And we do ours," Catherine finished quietly, staring out the windshield. Her eyes fell to gaze at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. "How's Tina?" she asked, telling herself she wasn't asking just because she felt obligated to.

Warrick visibly bristled. "Still pretty shaken up," he answered. "She's with her mom."

"She stayed pretty close to home, too, huh?" Catherine said. She felt uncomfortable. This was their first real conversation about Warrick's new bride, and the strangest circumstances under which to have it. But both were so worried about Nick, they were glad for the small distraction.

"Yeah," Warrick said with a smile. "That's us, just a couple of homebodies." His expression fell.

_Whose home has been violated, _Catherine thought with a pang of true sadness for the couple. Whatever petty jealousy Catherine was feeling towards Tina, she would never ever have wished for something like to happen.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

Walking down the sterile hallways that Grissom had traipsed only days before, Warrick was amazed the building could even be called a rehabilitation center, a place supposed to offer some kind of comfort and homey feeling to help you through whatever hell you were going through in your mind. Warrick saw none of that in the clean, stark white walls or the plain, heavy wooden doors that lined them.

And he definitely didn't see it in the staff. Warrick and Catherine had elicited countless glares and sneers from the caregivers, mostly men, dressed in a crisp white jackets and pants, causing them to curiously blend into the walls. The heavy, constant news coverage and Warrick's CSI vest left little to the imagination.

Warrick came to a stop in front of a door identical to all of the others along the wall. Next to the dark wood was a plaque reading _James Kendall, M.D_.

"This our guy?" he asked, unable to keep his distaste for a man that he had never met out of his voice.

Catherine checked the paper in her hand and nodded. She rapped lightly on the door.

"I'm not giving interviews," came the terse reply from behind the door.

"That's not really why we're here," Warrick answered.

"We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab," Catherine added.

Warrick shot her a look. He wasn't sure that supplying that information would make the good doctor any more eager to talk to them. He could have sworn he heard a curse mumbled from the room, but he also heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back and quick footsteps approaching the door.

The polished door opened and a man poked his head through the crack.

Warrick was taken aback by how young the doctor was. He had a few years on him. _How did this guy get this job, _he thought. "James Kendall?"

"_Doctor _James Kendall, yes," the young man corrected. "Can I help you?"

Catherine wore her sweetest smile. "We would just appreciate a minute of your time."

The doctor's eyes flickered between Catherine and Warrick, whose expression wasn't quite so sweet. He took a step back and opened the door more fully for them to enter the office but his posture and tone were less than inviting. "I already answered all of the questions that that Mr. Goss – "

"Grissom," Warrick said through clenched teeth.

"And we don't actually have any questions for you," Catherine said, crossing her arms. "We're just here for Nigel Crane's medical records."

"That's confidential information," he snarled in what Warrick was sure the man thought was a menacing tone. He was obviously humiliated by the CSIs' presence in his facility, in his office.

Catherine looked over at Warrick, who dutifully held out the court order.

"Not anymore."

* * *

Gil wearily rubbed his temples, continuing to stare blankly off into space. There was more than one thing resting uncomfortably atop his shoulders, and he could almost physically feel the weight. He couldn't help thinking that there could have been more he could have done. Then, now…there had to have been something.

While Catherine's office always seemed to offer her some kind of comforting refuge, Gil now found his overly spacious office cold and empty. No one was running in, setting off the singing bass mounted above the wall. There was no light banter from his team as they once again interrupted his quiet time, something he now found himself growing to enjoy.

It was quiet in his office. Probably the only area in the whole of the lab that was quiet. Gil knew that as soon as he stepped out of the office he would be greeted, make that _bombarded_, with frantic questions from every person and the constant ringing of every phone in the lab.

Technically speaking, Gil was waiting for some kind of news from Archie. He wasn't sure what it was exactly that he wanted the lab tech to tell him, he just wanted news of some kind. The extent of the nothing that they knew was frustrating.

What they did know was worse. Gil was feeling an all too familiar sensation. Nick was in danger and here he was, powerless to do anything but wait for word from someone else. There was something tugging at him, and he had a momentary vision of grabbing his gun and running out to save the day…but that sort of thing just didn't happen, and especially not at his age.

A light knock on his door drew Gil out of this, and his eyes pulled into focus for what seemed to be the first time in hours, eliciting a throb in his left temple. He winced and called whoever was there to come in.

The door opened and Catherine and Warrick stepped into the office.

Gil frowned. _Since when do they knock?_

Warrick held up a thick medical file. "Got it."

Gil held his hand out to accept the file, and Warrick handed it over, but seemed a little reluctant to do so. He pulled his glasses on and squinted at the first page of the file, sensing the presence of his two CSIs still hovering on the other side of his desk. He looked up.

Catherine mustered a small, hopeful smile. "Anything?"

Warrick's eyes were equally wide and full of hope for some kind of news.

Gil hated to disappoint them, but he had nothing else to give them. He solemnly shook his head. "Sorry," he said softly.

Warrick ran a hand over his face and attempted to hide a yawn. "I'm not worried," he said, unconvincingly and mostly to himself.

Gil took in the failed attempt to cover the yawn and Catherine's sagged shoulders. They were quickly wearing down, more quickly than normal. "How are you guys holding up?"

Warrick remained silent, and Catherine shrugged. "As well as we can, I guess, given the circumstances."

Gil didn't believe her, gave her a look. Her shoulders sagged even more and she shook her head.

Gil held the file back out to her, knowing that being well-informed would help her cope better.

She took it and stepped back. "I'll be in my office. Get me the minute you hear anything."

"I promise."

Catherine stopped for a second, jabbing a finger at him. "The _second_ you hear anything."

Gil nodded. She left the office, and Warrick stared for a moment longer before he sank wearily into a chair.

"Everything will work out, Warrick," Gil said as comforting as he could. "It always does."

Warrick raised his eyebrows, but didn't respond. Not too reassuring.

The quiet, uncomfortable moment was saved by the beeping of Gil's office line. He hit the speaker button as Warrick leaned eagerly forward. "Grissom."

_"Hey, Grissom, it's Archie."_

Warrick leaned back heavily in the chair. Nothing good was going to come of this call.

"What do you have?" Gil asked.

"_I, uh, finished going over those tapes. If you wanna come by here."_

"I'll be right there, Archie." He disconnected the call and stood, motioning to the door. "Do you want to…?"

Warrick slapped his hands on his legs. "Nah, I think I'm gonna go with Cath. See what's in that file. I want to know what that nut job of a doctor considers 'therapy.'"

Gil understood the subtext of Warrick opting out of some questionable video viewing. After watching Nick for hours struggle in that box, and his reaction to that uncomfortable revelation, it was completely understandable Warrick would not want to intrude further into Nick's privacy by watching tapes set up by some stalking maniac. Gil wasn't too thrilled about it himself, but he'd always saved the hardest part of the job for himself.

He walked through the halls, which had actually quieted down quite a bit, and only three people stopped on the way to pester him with annoying questions. When he came upon A/V lab, Gil found himself hesitating in the doorway.

Archie looked up and silently greeted him with an uneasy smile. Gil entered the room fully and dragged a stool over next to the one the young tech was seated at.

"I can't say this was the most comfortable thing I've ever done," Archie said dryly, picking up the remote. He pointed it at the huge bank of monitors that made up the wall. He paused and looked at Gil like he was going to say something more.

"Just play it, Archie," Gil said quietly, not taking his eyes off of the darkened screens.

Archie nodded. "I think I found what you were talking about. I cued it up." He lifted the remote again and pressed the 'play' button.

A chill ran down Gil's spine as an image of Nick in his kitchen appeared on the screen. The camera angle didn't provide a very wide shot, only the counter was visible. He could see the microwave and the faucet to the sink. There was no sound.

Nick entered the shot and reached for the coffee pot. He paused and looked to the microwave, where Gil could make out the shape of a small flashlight. He frowned in confusion and glanced over at Archie.

"I'll get to that," the young man said softly, shifting uncomfortably on his stool.

Gil's eyes went back to the screen and he saw Nick standing by the sink, bringing his coffee cup up when he suddenly jumped and looked to the left, the cup slipping from his grip and landing in the sink with an inaudible crash.

Gil's eyes dropped and he stared at his own mug. That was how Crane had known about the cup. That was how Crane had known about everything.

* * *

To be continued...


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

Gil's eyes were straining, feeling dry and scratchy, but he didn't blink. His hand supported his chin and his elbow rested on the table that he was still seated at in the A/V lab. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, and he realized it didn't matter. It seemed like there was always something more to watch, to discover, to speculate over. All he could think was how embarrassed Nick would be to know he'd seen it all.

Archie had mentioned something having to do with the flashlight, and he was right. The camera locations Crane had chosen hadn't been optimal for seeing what had happened, but Gil had gotten the idea. Nick had gotten spooked and investigated his attic.

When he saw Nick stalk through his living room and fling the flashlight onto his kitchen counter, Gil felt another all too familiar tug in his chest.

"_We'll figure this out."_

That was all that he'd said to Nick before he left the lab. Nothing more, nothing comforting or reassuring. He wasn't even sure he'd really believed there was anything to figure out at that point. Nick had been scared, and Gil had written it off as some kind of post-traumatic stress paranoia. God knows, the man had been through enough to warrant a fair amount of paranoia.

But this time, Nick hadn't just been being paranoid. He'd had a reason to be scared, and Gil hadn't given it the attention it deserved. He had failed, yet again.

What got to Gil even more than the suggestion that Nick had felt unsafe enough in his on home to check that there were no maniacs living in his attic, was the clip Archie had saved for him from the feed of the camera positioned in Nick's bathroom. The clock on the bottom of the feed read only a few moments after Nick had stormed back into his kitchen. Gil dutifully watched the screen as Nick pulled a prescription bottle out of his medicine cabinet and dry-swallowed a couple of the pills.

Sara had mentioned something about finding the medications in Nick's bathroom, prescriptions Gil was under the impression had expired. He had no idea Nick was still refilling the various 'scripts every month.

Just something else he'd missed.

Physiology trumped Gil's subconscious self-induced sort of punishment, and he blinked. His focus now broken from the lock it had had on the monitor in front of him, he looked out through the window in the hall. Archie had excused himself nearly an hour earlier to get a cup of coffee, and had yet to return. Gil could barely make out his shape across the hall, leaning uncomfortably on a counter in the DNA lab. Standing around him were Greg and Sara.

Gil inwardly frowned at the trio, standing around when there was so much that needed to be done, but outwardly only sighed, looking down at the table. He didn't even know what it was that needed to be done, and more importantly, who was he to decide how they should be dealing with this?

He didn't even know how _he_ should be dealing with it.

* * *

Greg listened silently as Sara and Archie traded angry comments containing choice words that Greg hadn't ever heard come out of the mouth of either of them; many of the comments they were making were about the doctors from the facility where Crane had been.

"Fucking quacks," Archie said, his eyes narrow. Greg knew the A/V tech hadn't been hands-on with anything to do with the case besides the tapes Grissom brought him, but stories had been told. Greg was sure everyone in a thirty-mile radius of the lab knew the entire story by now.

Greg had opted out of the roast of the health care professionals, only offering encouraging nods. If it was helping them get their frustrations out, then he was all for it. He just wasn't sure it would help him the way they were hoping it would help them.

He gradually stopped listening to the others, his eyes scanning the halls of the crime lab. They paused as they ran over the A/V lab, and he caught Grissom's eye. His supervisor immediately averted his gaze, bringing a coffee cup to his lips.

Greg frowned. It had definitely seemed as though Grissom had been watching him. He glanced back at Archie and Sara, so enthralled in exchanging insults they seemed to have forgotten he was even there, and Greg silently slipped out into the hall.

Grissom had been so invested in making it look as though he hadn't noticed Greg had seen him that he didn't hear Greg come up next to him until he was sinking onto the stool next to him. He looked over at Greg sharply, as though mutely accusing him of entering some kind of no-fly zone.

Greg looked down and over to the screen at which the older man had been so busy blankly staring. It was paused on an image of Nick, leaning over his bathroom sink, one of the little amber pill bottles next to his hand. Not a second after Greg's eyes flickered to the monitor did he hear the tap of a keyboard to his left and the screen went black.

"Grissom," he started, looking back over to his supervisor, but Grissom had risen from his stool and was making his way out of the room.

Greg watched his retreating form, retreating in more than one way, and sighed. It seemed that every time something big happened to them, one of them had to make the step up and work as the glue for the group, and he was starting to feel like this time it was his turn.

Greg set his jaw, and he started to think.

* * *

"What are you thinking?"

Catherine looked up at Warrick and raised her eyebrows, stretching out her eyes, which were blurry and tight from reading.

She let the file in her hands fall to her lap, and looked back down at it. "I think this is useless."

"I don't mean about the file."

"What do you mean?"

The two hadn't really been talking since they'd settled into Catherine's office to read through the file they'd secured. Catherine was at her desk, legs pulled up in her chair so her shins rested against the edge of the desk. She had made a tight, safe little space for herself.

Warrick was seated in a much less comfortable chair, in a much less comfortable position, and it showed. He stretched his legs out and rolled his neck, and Catherine heard the pop and the sigh and ignored it, and he was now gazing at her intently, arms resting on his legs.

His green eyes, which had always been able to stir up…something inside of her, now looked at her hollowly. The look left her feeling cold and lonely.

"Do you think he's all right?"

Catherine's lips parted and she cocked her head. She could feel tears gather in her eyes from the undertones of his question. Warrick, the strong, solid rock foundation on which she'd had to lay her faith and trust so many times, was hurting, and having doubts. He needed her reassurance, regardless of the hopelessness she was feeling, herself.

"Of course I do," she said, speaking softly to keep her voice from cracking.

If Warrick was encouraged by her words, he didn't show it. Instead, his eyes dropped to the floor and his shoulders fell even further. "How do you know?"

Catherine frowned. She lowered her feet to the floor and leaned forward. "Warrick, look at me." This time the words came from her mouth strong and unwavering, despite the tears that still threatened to spill.

Warrick's eyes rose sluggishly to meet hers.

"Nick is okay. We're going to find him, and it's going to be okay. Okay?" she finished, her voice finally cracking, and she wiped a finger under her eye.

"How do you know we're going to find him every time, Cath?"

Catherine was spared having to answer Warrick's question when her office door banged open and Greg rushed in, practically dragging Sara behind him, a firm grip on her hand.

Catherine hurriedly ran her hands over her eyes and through her hair. "What's going on?"

"Get up," Greg said, and without pausing for a response, turned and left the office just as quickly as he had come in, Sara still in tow. She shot them a worried look as she was pulled along.

Warrick rose and Catherine followed suit, and the two followed Greg down the hall. He was heading straight for Grissom's closed office.

Greg didn't even knock, he barged right in. He was on a mission, and he didn't release Sara's hand until she was completely in the room, although his subconscious might have had something to do with that. She whipped around to the front of Grissom's desk and looked back at Greg with wide eyes, not unlike the others in the room.

Especially Grissom. His head had shot up at the unannounced intrusion, and his eyes narrowed as the rest of his team filed in slowly. "Greg?" he asked.

"You guys," Greg said, pointing a finger and rotating it between his colleagues in the room, "have got to be kidding me if you think we're going to sit around in this damned lab for another minute."

"Greg," Catherine said softly. "There's nothing more we can do."

"That isn't true," Greg said sternly. "We go back to the apartment, we go back to Nick's, back to your house, Warrick, and we do our jobs and we don't stop until we figure out where Nick is. There has to be something more there, something we missed. This is _Nick, _guys. We can't let him down." His small speech finished, Greg surveyed the group for their reactions, hands on his hips.

Warrick stared at him with wide eyes, surprised at the outburst coming from such a recently reserved man. Then he smiled and gave Greg a punch on the arm.

Sara chewed on her lip, staring at her shoes. It took only a moment for her to seem to feel Greg's gaze upon her and she looked up. She met his eyes and her expression saddened and then hardened in a microsecond, and she gave him a tight nod.

Catherine had tears in her eyes, although Greg wasn't sure they were the same that had been brimming when she'd rushed out her office after him. She smiled and turned to Grissom.

Greg looked to Grissom last, half-expecting to be yelled at, though why he wasn't sure. Grissom had no harsh words for him. He simply looked at him with an expression that was almost…proud.

Greg was taken aback. He swallowed and smiled nervously.

"That's my Greggo," Warrick said. "Let's get up off of our asses and bring Nick home."

* * *

Home was definitely a place Nick would have loved to be at that moment. Something warm and familiar, not this cold, panic-inducing basement.

He wasn't actually panicking too badly at the moment. He'd calmed down considerably since Crane had last left the room. That might have had something to do with the fact Nick didn't really have any idea how much time had passed. There was barely any light in the room; it was obviously still night or early morning. And when he pushed the button on his watch to make the face light up, his head hurt too much and his eyes were too blurry to make out where the hands were. Of all the little aches and pains he was carting around with him, the pain in his head was what was really holding him back at the moment.

Nick had pulled himself back up onto the couch after being left alone, and though not willing to make himself more vulnerable by stretching out completely, had leaned back and laid his head against the cushion. It was pounding, and every time he moved, he felt nauseous. He'd started wiping away the blood on the side of his head, but after realizing he had nowhere to wipe the blood, he'd noted bitterly to himself, _why bother? _

He found himself watching the door carefully, plotting in his head. He wasn't quite up to moving towards the door, or trying anything too brave, but he wasn't just going to sit back and pass out either. He just needed to sit for a little while longer, push away the pain in his side, ignore the throb in his head, get to the point where he could stand without feeling like he was going to fall over…and do it all before Crane came back.

* * *

He wasn't entirely sure what he'd spent all of that time doing. Rage blackouts. He'd heard that term before. Although, as Nigel understood it, usually when those occurred the person went crazy and beat the shit out of either a person or some inanimate object, snapping out of it later not having a clue as to what had happened.

His thoughts went immediately to the person in the basement of the unfinished house. Maybe he had done something like that. No. He was more in control of himself now than ever before. Anything he'd done, he had done consciously.

Then where had the time gone? It was nearly morning, and here he was, sitting on the floor in an open and unfinished room. It was most likely meant to be the living room of the large house, but for whatever reason, construction had been halted. Money, probably. He didn't care. It didn't matter.

Nigel pursed his lips as his eyes wandered over the plywood panels acting as walls in the uncompleted house. Thick plastic sheets, the kind you put down when painting, billowed and rustled in a wind that whistled through the open holes that were meant to be windows. The contractor didn't get that far into the project, and the house had quite a chill in it. Oddly, it didn't seem to affect him. He was used to a chilly atmosphere.

He'd been thinking a lot. About what, he wasn't sure, but there things needing to be thought about. Decisions needing to be made.

Like what to do with Nick.

Nigel was angry with Nick, and there was just no getting around that. He'd tried, believe it or not. He'd tried to get over the anger. The therapy had helped in that respect.

At first.

After so long, it ceased to be therapeutic and instead just seemed to be aiding him in dwelling on events that just made him want to…

And more with the dwelling. Nigel fidgeted in his uncomfortable position on the floor. The anger that had spent so long simmering below the surface was starting to reach a full boil. He didn't like to live like this. He had to do something about the anger and what was causing it.

That was the plan, getting rid of what caused the anger. It was what Doctor Kendall had told him for years he needed to do to get past it, to be himself again. Himself, or maybe even someone better. After years in the institution, that was really the only thing the doctor had said that stuck with him. If Nick wasn't around, he wouldn't be angry anymore.

He'd just needed to find the right moment, and the right way. He wasn't one to strike quickly. He liked to watch people, to study their ways and habits. And if he had the opportunity, he really liked to be on his own turf. He had been hell to beat at chess in high school.

_Thud._

Nigel's head whipped around with lightning-fast speed to the bolted door. The last time he'd popped in on Nick, he felt the anger reach a fiery temperature he hadn't ever felt before. In that instance, he felt like someone else had invaded his body, making him stronger, quicker, and brighter. Nigel wasn't stupid; he was short, and by nature limp as a noodle. But with that anger in him…it fueled him.

By the time he'd left, he was sure Nick wouldn't be moving around any time soon, but here he was. Making noise. Being a nuisance.

Nigel couldn't let him make too much noise, or he would alert someone to their presence in the house. It was a ways off of the road, but not too far that someone passing by wouldn't hear, say, a gunshot.

He wondered if he would have the opportunity to get away.

* * *

Nick groaned and put a hand to his pounding head. He wasn't exactly graceful at the moment, as he tried to stand on wobbly legs and slipped to the floor with a thud. A loud one, at that. He just hoped he hadn't called attention to himself.

Realizing the floor wasn't optimal fighting grounds should Nigel return to the room, drawn by the sound, he sat up. Bracing on arm on the seat of the ratty couch, he pulled himself into a standing position. Blood rushed to his head and he leaned heavily against the wall. Maybe he'd finally taken one too many hits to the head. His arms and legs felt so heavy, he just wanted to collapse on the couch and sleep for a week.

_You can sleep when you get out of here_, Nick told himself, and started to slowly move along the wall to the door. He paused a foot or so from it and laid his head against the wall again, listening for any movement on the other side. There was only beautiful, merciful silence.

Not sure what he was expecting or hoping to happen once he made this move, Nick reached for the doorknob. He wasn't in the least bit surprised when it didn't budge. There was extra resistance coming from the frame, and Nick sighed. Locked and bolted. There was no way he was going to be busting down a locked door in his current condition.

Nick chewed on his lip. What in the hell was Nigel's plan? If he was going to kill him, Nick would think he would have done it, or tried to, already. This was just some kind of waiting game and Nick didn't know what to do besides sit around, wait for the door to open, and see what happened. He didn't like that. It was passive and weak, and not who Nick wanted to be. He wasn't going to sit around and wait for Nigel to come at him again.

There was the window. Not his first choice, but pretty much the only chance that he had. From across the room, he could see his escape option a little clearer. It didn't seem there was a glass pane in the frame, but a few simple boards covering it. Slivers of light, moon or streetlight, he didn't know, where coming through the slits. Small ones. It was going to be hard.

Nick rested a few more minutes, leaning against the wall, knowing full and well every second he spent there was one less to use to get away before Nigel came back. It was still silent on the other side of the door.

Nick frowned. What was Crane doing out there?

Knowing the silence wasn't going to last forever, Nick pushed himself off of the wall. The room tilted but didn't spin, so he figured he was doing better. He squinted against the throbbing in his head, and gritted his teeth, if for nothing more than something to distract him. His legs still felt wobbly, his feet heavy as they shuffled in front of each other, but he was moving, and wasn't leaning on anything. That was progress.

When Nick reached the opposite wall, he looked up at the window. If he stretched his hand over his head, he could probably get a good grip on the ledge. He just didn't know if his arms were up for it. He especially didn't want to risk pulling at the wound in his side. Instead, he surveyed the room, his eyes landing on the worn couch next to him. Nick got a firm grip on the top and side of the couch and pulled it towards him, fighting back the strained groan that nearly slipped out.

The couch scraped noisily along the concrete floor. Nick gave it a final tug and it scooted the final foot along the wall. He leaned on the arm of the couch, panting slightly, listening for Crane's approach. The whole operation had been noisier than he'd anticipated, and he had a gut feeling his luck was going to run out. Thankfully, no one entered the room, and Nick turned his attention back to the task at hand.

As he raised a foot to place it on the seat, a nearby shuffle perked his ears and he turned so quickly he nearly fell. His heart thudded painfully in his chest and all the way up into his throat, as his stared wide-eyed at an empty room.

_Shit_, Nick thought, shaking his head at himself. The thought of someone sneaking up behind him was still enough to unhinge him. There was no one there. Phantom footsteps, and he wasn't getting into _that_ right now. Too many other things to think about. Or worry about, more accurately.

Just to be sure, Nick remained immobile for a long moment, staring at the door. His waited just long enough to get his courage and energy mustered up as well as he could manage, then swung around and stepped up onto the couch in one fluid motion. It may have been a more fluid motion if he hadn't been aching all over, but it worked well enough, as he wasn't lying on the ground.

From this height, the boarded-up window was eye level, and he could make out the long nails that had been driven through the thin planks and into the walls. The window had been boarded up from the inside. Nick frowned. _Crane._

He felt around the edges of the boards, feeling for weaknesses in the carpentry. It seemed to have been a quick job, messy and jagged. Some of the boards were split from the sides were nails had been hammered just a little too hard, or at odd angles. His strength wasn't up to its full potential, but it would have to do.

A chilly breeze slipped in through the cracks between the boards and Nick shivered. With both hands, he placed as firm a grip as he could on the highest board. God, if this made any noise at all, Nigel was going to come running within seconds. He's been pretty lucky getting away with making noise up until now. Luck didn't last forever.

Nick took a deep breath, planting both feet as resolutely as he could in the seat cushions. He could feel the pull in his side already, and when he gave that great tug on the board, wrenching the nails from their holes in the wall, it felt as though it ripped open all over again.

Nick gasped and dropped the board in his hand's instinctive rush to cover his side. The board clattered to the hard floor and Nick swore under his breath. That was sure to have done it.

Sure enough, there were muffled thuds and scrapes coming from somewhere in the building. Resigned to the fact that if Nigel got to the room and Nick was still here it would not end well, Nick put his hands on the next board and pulled without pausing for another breath.

* * *

"So where would he take Nick?" Warrick asked, placing his hands on his hips.

He and Catherine were once again standing in his living room. Warrick forced his eyes to remain on his partner's face, and not survey the damage to his home.

Greg's pep talk had certainly gotten them on their feet and moving again, and the team had split up and left the lab only moments after. Warrick had taken his house not only because it was his, but because it was the last place Nick and Crane had been. Wherever the lunatic had left with Nick, he had left from there.

Just standing in the room seemed to be helping their thought processes. Although Warrick was avoiding the hole in the wall and the blood in the carpet, Catherine had given it another quick study. They'd also walked up and down the driveway and street for nearly a block, looking for anything to suggest the direction a fleeing Crane may have gone.

Catherine ran a hand over her forehead, brushing her bangs out of her eyes and shook her head. "Somewhere he feels comfortable," she offered.

"Okay, so that gives us what? Attics…" Warrick started to tick things off on his fingers, but realized that after attics, he really didn't know where to go.

Catherine frowned and shook her head again. "No, that's too obvious. Maybe something similar?"

Warrick thought for a moment. "Basement?"

Catherine scrunched her nose. "It'd be pretty hard not to notice someone staying in your basement."

"Okay, let's just start with a general area." Warrick sighed and started to pace. "He'd want to stay close to Nick, yeah? So we're looking for something within a few block of his house."

"Probably close to the lab, too," Catherine added.

Warrick stopped pacing. "What's between Nick's house and the lab?"

Catherine shrugged. "The high school? No, that's too close to the highway. What's off of a side road?"

Warrick paused and thought. He did a quick drive from the lab to Nick's in his head, trying to remember street names and landmarks. There was the high school, the Dairy Queen, a couple of gas stations, an unfinished housing edition, a strip mall…

_Wait a minute,_ Warrick thought. He snapped his fingers and looked up at Catherine. "That housing edition."

"What housing edition?"

Warrick fumbled for the name, his mind racing and limbs tingling at the thought of a lead. "Highland something or other, it doesn't matter. They started building houses over the summer but something went wrong with the contractors or the funding and the project got pulled. There're a couple of half-finished houses out there."

Catherine's eyes lit up. Her mouth opened and she awkwardly grabbed for the cell phone on her belt. It was enough of an answer for Warrick and he breezed past her as she called Brass and Grissom. Catherine was right on his heels.

_Please_, was the only thought that went through Warrick's mind.

* * *

Nick worked as quickly as he could, adrenaline pumping, and he ripped the final two boards from the wall in less than a minute. It was a wonder he'd had that much time. He carelessly tossed the board to the floor, no longer caring about the noise it caused. It didn't matter anyways, because he could hear the scrape of a key from the direction of the door.

"Nick?" Nigel called, alarmed and angry, and there was a pounding on the door. "What are you doing in there?"

_What do you think?_ Nick thought, and he placed his hands on the windowsill, hoisting himself up as best he could. His feet slipped slightly as he braced himself on the back on the couch. It was hard to put the discomfort, the warm and steady trickle of fresh blood out of his mind, but he ignored it as well as his still-pounding head would let him.

Nick got his elbows up on the ledge and his fingertips brushed grass, causing him to kick at the wall even more frantically, struggling to get his weight up. He didn't hear the door open, and didn't hear footsteps crossing the room. But as his upper body started through the narrow opening, he did feel the hand grip his foot.

* * *

To be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

_Like hell,_ Nick thought at the unexpected grip on his foot. He kept his vice-like hold on the windowsill and kicked out as hard as he could, all the while continuing his efforts to pull himself out of the window. He was aiming for what he hoped was Nigel's face and instead felt something move from the force of his foot and clatter to ground.

_The gun. _It suddenly crossed his mind just how close a call he's nearly had.

In that second, it wasn't Nick who had a choice to make; his only option was to do whatever it took to get the hell out of there. It was Nigel Crane who had to decide whether to take the four seconds it would require to collect the gun and risk Nick making it out of the window, or continue to cling fiercely to Nick's ankle, keeping his right on the precipice of escape.

Nick kind of hoped he went with option two. There was a surge of adrenaline rushing through him, and he had a moment of confidence and clarity that told him despite his weakened condition, he could beat this man. He wasn't going down without a fight; that was for damn sure. And he really didn't want to deal with the gun again.

When the grip on his ankle didn't loosen in the slightest Nick kicked even harder, not even looking behind him. He heard several grunts from Nigel as the man attempted unsuccessfully to dodge Nick's flailing feet.

"Enough!" Nigel yelled, and yanked Nick's foot back hard.

Nick's chest and chin thudded in succession against the window ledge as his fingers slipped. He wriggled around as he fell back onto the ratty couch and continued to kick his feet. His eyes widened and ran over the floor, searching for the discarded gun. They narrowed as they spotted the piece only a few feet away. His momentary distraction was an opening for Crane and he lunged at Nick.

Nick let out a strangled cry as Nigel's full weight, which might not have been a lot but was enough in this instance, hit him. He furiously flailed and pounded the smaller man anywhere he could. Nigel was hitting back, and he took a few jabs, but Nick ignored every fist, focusing on keeping moving and trying not to provide himself as too open an target. His "fight or flight" instinct had kicked in, in high gear and this time it was fight, all the way.

Nick drew his legs to his chest and planted his feet in Nigel's middle. He pushed with all of his might, yelling a bit with the strain and the pull of the ripped skin in his side.

Nigel grunted and rolled as he hit the floor. He was down only momentarily before springing to his feet, panting and squinting at Nick. It seemed Nick wasn't the only one with adrenaline working for him.

Knowing the position of the gun, and not sure that Nigel did just yet, Nick kept his eyes locked on Nigel's. He wasn't going to chance a quick glance and risk the other man scooping it up.

"Now, Nick…" Nigel started to say. Nick could almost hear him finish the sentence in his head – _"I don't want to hurt you."_ "It has to be this way."

Nick swallowed. Crane's statement was unexpected. He'd anticipated another attempt from Crane to befriend him, a threat, maybe…but such a low, steady declaration. This was something Crane had thought about, a decision he had made and was ready to act in. Nigel was going to kill him, was _ready_ to kill him. That changed things considerably.

_Keep him talking_, a tiny voice in Nick's head told him. _Buy some time until the others get here. _There was a roadblock there, though, as he didn't know if anyone even had any idea where he was. The walls of the basement blacked out momentarily and he was back in that goddamned box, not knowing when his time was going to run out or if the others were coming for him or if they'd even figured out what had happened yet.

The room righted itself and Nick took a couple long pulls of oxygen into his lungs, clearing his head. This wasn't the same situation. He might be alone but he wasn't helpless, and he could stall Nigel, despite his condition. He could that much.

_Here's hoping._ Nick swallowed again, trying to keep his pounding heart in his chest. It felt as though it was trying to escape his body via his throat. "Why?" he managed.

Crane squinted at him, an appraising look.

_He knows I'm stalling, he knows I'm scared..._Nick's mind was racing, and his heart thudded even harder.

_He knows no one's coming._

* * *

_We're coming, _Warrick thought, gripping the steering wheel even tighter. They were racing along at speeds faster than Warrick thought he'd ever driven before. Thank God for the truck's lights and sirens. Speed was more important to him than stealth, despite Brass's orders. He'd reached a compromise with the detective and agreed to slow down and shut off the lights and sirens before he reached the neighborhood.

Even speeding as fast as they were, the drive was taking too long for Warrick's liking. His eyes glanced up at the rearview mirror, checking the position of the two squad cars and the SUV behind him. He hoped the whole thing wasn't for nothing. It was such a shot-in-the-dark of an idea where Nigel Crane would have taken Nick, but it was all that they had.

He could feel Catherine's eyes on him from the passenger seat and avoided meeting them. He didn't want to see the fear there, sure it would look too much like what he was feeling, himself. He knew he'd scared Catherine with his question back at the lab.

"_How do you know that we're going to find him every time, Cath?"_

Hell, he'd scared _himself_ with his question. It was something he'd been thinking all night, hadn't actually meant to voice it. It had just slipped out. She hadn't answered him, and Warrick now wished she would have. He needed that encouragement she was so good at giving. He needed her faith in situations like this to serve as his backbone.

Warrick felt a gentle hand cover his tense right one on the steering wheel and he faltered for a moment, his eyes leaving the road and meeting Catherine's.

"We're going to get him, Warrick." There is was, just when he needed it. It was like she could read his mind, a power which he believed to be more real every day.

Her voice was firm, and he knew she was talking about two different things. They were going to find Nick, and they were going to get Nigel Crane and lock him away in a prison where he belonged, once and for all.

Warrick mustered up a small smile and nodded. "Yeah, we are." His eyes narrowed, and he felt the weight of the gun on his hip.

If he had a clear shot, Crane might not be making it to prison.

* * *

Gil wasn't sure if it was the safest thing for him to be doing, driving. Not in this state. For someone so often accused of feeling no emotion, he was practically blinded by them at this point. All he could see were the flashing lights of the black and whites and Warrick's truck in front of him, so much so that he clipped a curb going around a curve.

"Jesus," Sara breathed, and Gil looked over at her. The fingers of her left hand were clutching the center console in a white-knuckled death hold, her right hand gripping the handle on the passenger side door.

"I'm sorry," he said, and glanced back to a drawn, pale Greg in the back seat.

The young CSI dismissed his apology with a shake of his head and Gil returned his attention to the road. Not a good time to get distracted, not with Warrick booking it like he was. And rightfully so.

This was the first time they'd had anything close to a lead on where Nick was, and Gil was just as anxious to get to those houses as Warrick was. Maybe even more so. Greg had pulled up the plans for the unfinished neighborhood, declaring that construction had been started on three model homes, all with basements.

It was an odd move on Nigel's part, Gil thought, but this wasn't the time for thinking. He would have plenty of time to do that after they got Nick somewhere safe. Somewhere away from crazy people waiting and watching him in the dark. Gil idly wondered if such a place existed.

And then he pressed harder on the accelerator.

* * *

"Why?" Crane echoed with a crazed laugh. "This thing…this whole thing has been driving me out of my mind!"

_Yeah, and I bet there was a whole lot of that to start with._ Nick bit his tongue to keep from saying the words.

"You," Nigel said, pointing an accusatory finger at Nick. "It wasn't about _you_. It was about me. You're the one who made it about you."

Nick frowned in confusion. This was what he wanted; Crane seemed to be focused on talking and had forgotten about the gun, at least for the moment. He just wasn't sure this was what he wanted to be hearing, but he had to go with it now. "What do you mean?"

Nigel's expression contorted in anger and he closed the distance between them. Nick blocked the first fist that was flung at his face and ducked under the second.

"Why are you always mocking me?" Nigel yelled.

"I'm not!" Nick yelled back, shoving Nigel away again. The effort finally induced a pain in his side no adrenaline rush could trump and his arm immediately cradled against it.

Nigel smirked at his obvious discomfort. His eyes glistened darkly. "You don't care about what I have to say."

"I just want to…understand," Nick gritted out. _And buy some time. _He'd been immobile long enough for his various other aches and pains to start reemerging, and Nick winced. He finally gave in and remained still, knowing any further movement would only serve to hurt himself further. _Just keep him talking._

"Really?" Nigel asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He took a casual step forward. "You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself. You don't care what I went through."

Nick could feel his cheeks start to flush as he grew angry. "Would you stop whining, already?" He couldn't keep it in, and at this point, he didn't care.

Nigel's eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nick didn't give him a chance.

"No, I don't care about you went through. You deserved all of it and more, Nigel. You _killed_ people. What about that don't you understand? " Nick started to straighten himself out, expecting his words to bring on another attack.

Instead, Nigel stood silent in the middle of the room. He seemed to be staring into space, not really focusing on Nick, and so he risked a glance to where he'd last seen the gun. It was still there, just waiting for him to get to it.

Nick didn't know what he'd said that had affected Nigel this way, but he knew he needed to take any chance he was given. He started to inch his way slowly along the seat of the couch. He kept his eyes on Nigel, standing still, and moved them to the gun as he stretched his arm out to reach for it.

Just as his fingertips grazed the cool steel, the gun was lifted from the floor. Nick looked up with wide eyes at Nigel Crane, now holding the gun. It was surprisingly steady in his hand. Nick would have thought it would be shaking, what with how angry Nigel had been.

Not now. Nigel looked at the gun in his hand and down at Nick calmly. "You're right, Nick. I _have_ killed people."

Not liking where this was headed, Nick started to weigh his options. Lunge and risk a bullet or sit and wait for a bullet. It turned out he didn't have the time to choose.

Nigel raised the gun and leveled it. The scene was all too familiar, and it made Nick's stomach turn.

"_Nick, you know what a nine millimeter slug does to a skull at close range?"_

_Yeah, I do_, Nick thought bitterly. _Skull and bone and brains. Strawberry swirled whipped cream. _

"Maybe that's who I am," Nigel said, drawing Nick back into the present, his voice still steady and calm. "That's what it was all about. Finding out I am."

_I am one, who am I? _

_Then why am I here?_ Nick wanted to ask. He didn't know how he'd been drawn into this madman's search for himself. He didn't have the chance to voice his question. Something changed in Nigel's face, and it seemed all that was in focus in Nick's field of vision was the image if the other man's finger tightening on the trigger.

* * *

Jim Brass knew he was going to be flooring it the second he hopped into his sedan. It wasn't just because Catherine had possibly provided him with a lead, their first, as to where Nick might have been, because that was still just speculation. It was how well he knew Warrick Brown, that's what had him putting the pedal to the metal.

He knew Warrick would be racing to the housing development despite any logical argument he had to offer. And he understood it. He felt that pull in his chest that seemed to be coming from the direction they were heading. It was Nick, and the kid meant a lot to him. But things still needed to be done the way things were done. Warrick Brown was not a police officer, he was a crime scene investigator, and Jim needed to make sure he remembered that. It wasn't his place to be leading the speeding caravan as he was now.

Jim pressed even harder on the accelerator when they got to the freeway, and he moved to speed alongside the SUV Warrick was driving, hoping the action in itself would relay his message. It didn't.

Warrick shot him an annoyed look as the Taurus raced past on the right and cut in front. Jim raised his eyes to look in his rearview mirror and saw Warrick pound a fist on his steering wheel in frustration. His radio crackled.

_"What's the deal, Jim."_

Not a question. So Jim didn't feel any guilt over not supplying the other man with an answer.

Warrick didn't test him, but followed as closely as he could. When Jim saw their destination appear on his right, he started to slow. The cars behind him followed suit, and all lights and sirens were silenced.

He pulled to the curb at the entrance of the development and stepped swiftly out of the car and back to the others, which were slowly stopping behind his own. His right hand was already twitching nearer to his gun. He held up a hand to stop Warrick's inevitable protest.

"Not now, 'Rick," Jim said quickly, keeping his voice low. If this _was_ where Crane and Nick were, he certainly didn't want to be alerting the lunatic to their presence and cause him to do something drastic. "And you're staying out here."

Warrick's eyes narrowed and he raised his chin defiantly.

Gil stepped up before he could spit out a retort. "He's right, Warrick. Let them do their job."

Warrick gestured to his hip. "I have a gun, don't I?"

"That's for your own protection, not for you to go running around and playing the hero," Jim told him in a harsh whisper. "Now, you are staying _out here_."

"Try and make me," Warrick told him in an equally harsh tone.

"We don't have time for this," Catherine interjected, glancing angrily at both men. "If Nick is around here somewhere, then we need to _move_."

Jim pursed his lips and surveyed the anxious crowd in front of him. He turned to Warrick, saw the look in his eyes and knew there was realistically no way to keep the man waiting out at the curb. "You stay in the back and don't even _think_ about doing anything that could be interpreted as heroic or _I'll _have your gun, you get me?"

Warrick's eyes narrowed even further. "I get you."

Jim jerked his head and Warrick and the other officers fell in line behind him. He saw Catherine lay a hand on Warrick's arm before they left. He understood the anxious, meaningful gesture, and the wide-eyed look Warrick gave her in response. This was big. It could be nothing, or it could be everything.

The three incomplete model homes lay before them. Jim moved forward cautiously and cocked his head, listening for any kind of sound that would tip them off as to which building they should check first. Nothing more than rustling leaves greeted him. They were going to have to go house to house in one group.

He turned to Warrick and the three officers, about to relay the game plan when a sharp, terrifyingly loud sound cut through the air.

Jim nearly dropped his gun at the sound of the shot, and he stumbled as a blurry figure streaked past him, running all-out for the furthest house down the street.

He wanted to call out to Warrick, to tell him to stop, but it didn't appear his voice was working. Neither were his legs. For an excruciatingly long second, he was frozen in place. It even felt like he stopped breathing. It felt like everything had stopped.

"Warrick!"

The call came from Gil. He _would_ be the one who would able to speak…but his voice wasn't quite as commanding as usual. That struck Jim almost harder than the gunshot. Gil was shaken, and this was bad.

Oxygen and the ability to move hit Jim in a one-two punch and he reeled a bit, and then sprinted as well as he could after Warrick. He didn't have to turn around to know there were several people on his heels, CSIs included.

No one was going to be standing at the curb now.

* * *

That fight or flight instinct kicked in one last time as Nick saw Nigel's finger start to tighten on the trigger of the gun, and he didn't hesitate the slightest as he dove low at the other man.

Nick didn't know if Nigel had aimed and fired, or simply pressed the trigger out of surprise from the hit, but it didn't really matter as the bullet whizzed by, dangerously close to his head. He couldn't think about that now – what was another close call by this point? He needed to focus on getting the gun away from Crane. He liked his odds a lot better with the gun out of the picture, or in his hands instead.

Crane grunted as he hit the ground and he tried to roll away but Nick didn't let him. Pushing aside all of his own pain, he planted a knee on Nigel's chest and grabbed frantically at the gun in the other man's iron-grip. Their situations were reversed from their first little tangle in the basement. Now it was Crane pinned on the ground, trying to gain the upper hand, and Nick liked this arrangement much better.

Not knowing how long his strength was going to hold out, Nick clamped a hand down hard on Crane's right wrist and pulled at the gun with the other. However, Crane _did_ have two arms, and Nick was reminded of this as a fist crashed into his face.

Though stunned, he was not dislodged from his advantageous position and he angrily returned the blow. He smirked slightly as Crane's head bounced off of the floor. _Doesn't feel too hot, does it?_ Momentarily forgetting about the gun and blinded by the anger and danger of the moment, Nick raised his fist to deliver another punch just as a muffled shout came from somewhere in the house.

"Nick!"

_Warrick? _

"Warrick!" Nick yelled back, his voice not quite as loud as he would have liked. "Down he – "

In his distraction, Crane got another punch off before Nick had time to block or dodge it. This one had much more force behind it than that of the first and Nick's grip on Crane's hand loosened. Taking full advantage of the situation, Nigel rolled hard to his right and threw Nick off of him. On a good day, this wouldn't have been such an easy task, but Nick was hurting, and as more time passed, the more it was showing.

Though his body protested, Nick sprang up into a crouched position as quickly as he could and was forced to immediately move his arm to block yet another incoming fist. Fortunately, Crane was angrier than he was thoughtful, and he tried to hit Nick with the gun instead of shoot him with it. He batted the gun and it miraculously fell out of Nigel's grip, clattering to the ground once again.

With a final flash of speed Nick snatched up the gun and stood, aiming it awkwardly at Crane, who gave an amused laugh.

"You gonna shoot me, Nick?" he asked with a smirk.

Nick's hand shook, from nerves or just from a weakening grasp, he wasn't sure. His other arm pressed close to his side again, and he breathed heavier than should have been necessary. His mind raced wildly, hoping Warrick had heard him, because he was starting to seriously doubt how long he was going to stay upright. He allowed himself to feel a bit of relief when he heard stomping on the stairs. _Calvary's here. _He just had to keep Nigel at bay until someone could get to him.

"That's not who you are," Crane continued.

Nick looked at him with wide eyes. It was like he didn't even care there were others in the house. A flash of anger was added to his surprise.

"And how do you know who I am?" Nick asked, his shaky voice betraying the emotions he was battling. Something inside of him was anxious to hear what Crane had to say. He felt his fingers slacken, and adjusted his pitifully amateur grip on the gun.

Nigel Crane smiled and moved to respond.

Nick didn't get to hear his answer. Before Crane could speak another body collided with him and the two fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

* * *

To be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten_

Warrick didn't hold back. He tackled the other man with all that he had, physical strength and emotions simmering just below the surface, boiling over as his body connected with Crane. There was quite a bit of rage and frustration pent up inside. Nigel Crane could just thank his lucky stars Warrick had found Nick with the gun pointed at him instead of the other way around, or else things would have _really_ gotten ugly.

Warrick was immensely satisfied with the grunt of pain his surprise attack elicited from the smaller man and it was all he could do not to pound him into a bloody mess for all that he had done. But there were other things to be taken care of. This man was a meaningless waste of God's good time and talent.

Warrick held Crane on the ground and without taking his eyes off of him, spoke to his friend. "Nick, man, you all right?"

There was no response.

Warrick's heart rate quickened, thumping loudly, each beat sounding like a blow inside of his ears. He didn't want to risk looking away from Crane, but was starting to get really worried. "Nicky?"

Warrick heard approaching footsteps, something being said he couldn't quite make out through the pumping in his head – quiet and calm. Then another shape appeared next to him, and Jim Brass placed a firm hand between Crane's shoulder blades.

"I got him," the detective said. Warrick met his eyes, which said '_go get Nick.'_

Warrick whirled and was stunned by the sight of his friend. Nick was standing just as still as he'd ever seen someone stand, one arm held tight to his side, the other wavering with the weight of the gun. He took in the blood on his left side and head, both dried and fresh, with a hiss of sympathy and moved quickly to Nick's side.

"You wanna give me that gun, Nicky?" he asked, his voice as steady as he could make it. His relief at finding his friend relatively intact was no match for the concern he was feeling for the shape that friend was actually in. "Maybe sit down for a minute?" His voice cracked.

Nick didn't meet his eyes, but nodded slightly.

Warrick nodded back and carefully took the weapon from Nick's weak grip. Nick didn't make a move to sit, and Warrick's attention was again drawn to his blood-covered side.

He reached a hand out to move Nick's arm away. "Let me see."

Nick looked up. "It's okay," he said, so quiet, it was probably to himself.

In his head, Warrick could hear him finishing the phrase he'd heard so many times. _I'm fine._

He was far from it.

* * *

Brass was clenching his jaw, Warrick could see it. Looking into the other room from behind a sheet of glass, he was experiencing an odd feeling of déjà vu. Flanking him on either side were Catherine and Grissom. Greg and Sara had offered to stay back at the hospital was Nick. Warrick was worried about his friend and wanted to be there with him, but was anxious to hear what this creep had to say for himself.

Just as the first time Nigel Crane had sat in this room, he was being uncooperative. There wasn't as much incoherent mumbling, but he wasn't answering Brass's questions, either.

"I'm only going to ask you this one more time," Brass gritted out. The frustration in his voice was clear to everyone who was listening in on the conversation. "Why did you take Nick?"

Crane cocked his head and smiled coldly at the detective. "I don't really know. It just seemed like the right thing to do."

Warrick's eyes narrowed. This guy was a piece of work. He wanted to rush into the room, grab the small man by his shirt and throw him into a wall. Unfortunately, he was already on Brass's shit list, and didn't figure doing anything like that would help him out any.

As if she could read his thoughts, Warrick felt a gentle yet restraining hand on his arm, and he glanced over at Catherine. Her face was set, but the underlying anger was evident in her eyes.

As for Grissom, Warrick had no idea what his supervisor was thinking. He hadn't said a single word since arriving at the station. Warrick knew Grissom had been just as freaked as he'd been while Nick was missing, if not more so, but he hadn't really said anything about it. He was just standing and staring, his face reading nothing more than his perpetual curiosity.

"Since when is shooting and kidnapping someone the right thing to do?"

All eyes went back to the window dividing the two rooms, back to Brass and Crane. Warrick squinted and crossed his arms. He just wanted answers.

"He deserved it." Crane sat forward in his chair, his cuffed hands resting on the tabletop. "He was supposed to be my friend – "

"Listen to me," Brass interrupted loudly. "Nick Stokes is not your friend, never was, and never will be. He's a good man, and you're a crazy son of a bitch who never should have been allowed near normal people." He looked to the officer at his right. "Get his sorry ass out of here."

Warrick sighed in frustration and shook his head. Ignoring the hand still clutching his arm, he pushed open the door and went straight to Brass.

The detective looked at him sympathetically. "He's out of it, 'Rick. Probably doesn't even realize what he's been doing. We're not going to get anything out of him."

"You really believe that? I think he's smarter than we're giving him credit for."

"I think we're already giving him too much credit." Brass watched with dark eyes as Crane was led out of the room and down the hall. He addressed Warrick without looking at him. "Have you checked up on him yet?"

"I wanted to see what we could get out of this guy first," he said pointedly. He wanted to make it clear to Brass that if they didn't interrogate Crane good and proper, it was a waste of the time he could have been spending with Nick at the hospital.

Brass's expression softened as he got the message. "I'll work on him some more, okay? Let's just let him stew for a while."

Warrick nodded and turned to leave the room. "Okay."

"I'm not done with you yet, 'Rick."

Warrick winced at the harsh change of tone in the detective's voice, knowing what was coming. Brass was sympathetic to Warrick's worries, but was still angry with him.

"I'm not going to apologize," Warrick said truthfully.

Brass cracked a small smile. "No, I didn't think you would." He shifted his weight, and the smile disappeared. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't. I told you to stay away from the house and to let the PD do its job."

"And if I did that, Nick might not be enjoying the comfort of a hospital bed right now, he'd be lying in the morgue with a bullet in him," Warrick responded angrily. He suddenly became very aware of the two sets of eyes still looking into the room from the observation room, from behind the thick pane of glass.

He looked over to see one narrowed pair of eyes, and one pair glistening with a few unshed tears. He sent a silent apology to Catherine, wiping a finger under her eyes, for saying the things everyone had been afraid to even think about. That this man could have actually killed Nick.

"Be that as it may, when I tell you to do something, you do it," Brass said, his voice rising.

"You're not my boss," Warrick answered. "And like hell I was gonna just stand around and wait for the police to make their way in there."

It was the truth. He'd agreed to stay in the back of the group when they were heading into the houses, but wasn't so sure that given a clear shot, he wouldn't have taken it. No matter what Brass had said, or what Warrick may have promised him.

Brass's face held the angry look a moment longer, but Warrick could tell he was angry because he was obligated to be. He jerked his head to the door. "We're done here."

Warrick nodded and started to leave. He really wanted to get to the hospital.

"'Rick."

"Yeah?"

Brass seemed to be considering his words. "That gun's not your right, it's a privilege. It doesn't mean you can go running into dangerous situations. That's not your job."

Warrick knew he was right, but logic was not what had been fueling him at that moment. He'd been anxious, worried, and scared for his friend. That gunshot had been the most frightening sound in his life, and he'd reacted without thinking.

Brass gave him a tight smile, and Warrick knew he understood. He was reprimanding him in front of Grissom so that the supervisor wouldn't feel disciplinary action was in order.

"I'm, uh, I'm gonna head over to Palms and check up on Nick."

Brass nodded. "Tell him I'll be by later tonight. I want to be here if Crane starts talking."

Warrick nodded. He turned back to the window, where he could see Catherine and Grissom were still in the observation room. It looked like Catherine was saying something to Grissom, but it didn't seem that he was listening.

"You hear that?" he called to them.

Catherine nodded and leaned forward, pressing the intercom button. "Give me a minute, I'll go with you."

"Leavin' in five." Warrick turned his attention to Grissom, who nodded.

Warrick breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been worried Grissom was going to implode in on himself and end up avoiding going by the hospital. It was obvious Grissom was feeling some guilt, unnecessarily, over what had happened. It wasn't his fault. But there was no telling that to the supervisor.

* * *

The ride to the hospital was a quiet one. You would think that it would be a comfortable silence, with each person relishing in the relief that their friend was safe. That wasn't so much the case.

Warrick was concerned with Nick's silence as they'd left the house. Sure, he rightfully deserved to sit back and be quiet. He had looked, and most likely felt, like shit. He'd looked beaten and tired, and Warrick was worried how this whole ordeal would affect him.

He was worried what tomorrow would be like.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly, avoiding the eyes of his coworkers in the passenger and back seats. If he looked at Catherine, he was afraid he would have some kind of meltdown, or at least assist in one of her own. If he looked at Grissom, he was afraid he would snap and start yelling. The man had continued to appear calm throughout the whole thing and as bad as it sounded, Warrick hoped Grissom was feeling something like the pain and anger he was. There was no telling from looking at him, but Warrick knew all too well the man was an expert at keeping things to himself.

So Warrick just drove, without looking in the rearview mirror, not risking the chance of catching a glimpse of Grissom's calm eyes. His stomach tightened as he pulled the SUV into the parking garage adjacent to the hospital. He wanted to be there for his friend, but at the same time was nervous to see him. He'd talked to the paramedics at the house, and they said once Nick got some blood in him and some rest, he would be okay, physically.

But Warrick knew better. The doctors were going to say he was okay, Nick, himself was going to say he was okay, but things were going to take time to be okay again.

"Do you know which room he's in?" Catherine asked as they headed for the elevators.

Warrick held up the scrap of paper he'd scribbled the information on when Greg had called.

The three rode the elevator up to the third floor, and Warrick hesitated when he stepped off. He wondered if Nick was going to blame them for what happened. For not believing him. For not figuring out what was going on before it was too late. For not finding him until they did.

They'd pushed and pushed until they got Nick in a private room. They didn't want any more people around him than was absolutely necessary. When they came to the door, Grissom paused.

"I'll let you guys go in first," he said quietly.

Warrick frowned at him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Catherine said gently. She knew just as well as Warrick did that Grissom was taking this badly. So badly he didn't know how to deal with it.

* * *

The room was dim. The doctors had told Sara and Greg the CAT scan had indicated Nick's head had been knocked around quite a bit, especially on the left side. He was asleep at the moment but Sara kept the lights dimmed anyway, just in case he woke up. She didn't want to cause him anymore discomfort. _God knows he's been through enough,_ she thought.

Sara sighed and adjusted herself in the uncomfortable plastic chair. She'd often thought the hospital would provide more comfortable seating for visitors, as they were usually there for extended periods of time. She looked to her side, at the stack of magazines she'd flipped through a couple of times each already. Nothing she read in any of them had stuck. She was too distracted.

The television was on, and Sara had, for the most part, kept her eyes glued to the screen, flipping through the channels, never resting on one for more than fifteen seconds. She was trying not to look over at Nick, because she didn't want to lose it, and that was a very real possibility at the moment. It was harder to keep her composure now that she was alone in the room. Greg had stepped out to get coffee a while ago and had yet to return. Sara figured he was making calls, or just trying to keep it together, like she was. Avoiding seeing him.

Nick hadn't been awake since going under upon arriving at the hospital. He looked horribly pale, or at least he had the last time Sara had snuck a glance in his direction, probably due to all of the blood he'd lost. It nearly made her cry, and she didn't think she could look at him again without completely losing her cool. IVs running out of his hand, bandages on his head and more on his side, which she gratefully hadn't seen.

There was a light knock at the door, and Greg's head poked inside. "Hey," he said, coming into the room. "Grissom, Catherine, and Warrick are on their way." He handed Sara a coffee cup and took up his post in the second chair next to Nick's bed. "How is he?"

"Same?" was all Sara could offer.

The doctor had told them repeatedly that Nick's injuries weren't serious, that he was going to be okay. But Sara had heard him telling a nurse to call for a psychiatric consult when Nick woke up. She sipped her coffee and continued to flip through the channels.

"Good," Greg said, his legs fidgeting nervously. His eyes also went to the television screen.

They sat like that for a long while, watching programs twenty seconds at a time, nurses popping in every now and then, always with a smile and something reassuring to say, until there was another knock on the door.

Warrick stepped in the room first, his eyes widening at the sight of Nick lying in the hospital bed. Sara wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he seemed surprised by his friend's condition. "Hey, Nicky," he softly.

Greg stood and moved back to the corner, offering Warrick his chair. He practically collapsed into it, and Sara knew he wasn't going to be moving for a while.

Catherine went straight to Nick's side and grasped his hand gently, giving it a small squeeze. "How's he doing?" she asked, never taking her eyes off of him.

"He's going to be okay," Greg said. It was all anyone was saying. Until he woke up, there was really no way to accurately gauge just how "okay" he was going to be.

Sara nodded, feeling a flash of envy towards Catherine, who'd been able to look at Nick, to touch him without crying. She couldn't bring herself to do it right now.

Sara felt a final presence enter the room and she turned slowly to Grissom, her eyes meeting his. He looked away, then back at her. He seemed so lost and helpless, something she knew he was unfamiliar feeling. Grissom always knew what was going on. He always had a plan. Here, there was nothing he could do.

Sara wanted to go to him, to give him a hug and tell him this couldn't have been helped by anything he might have done. That this wasn't his fault.

She might have worked up the courage to do it, but everyone's attention was diverted to the center of the room, as Nick began to stir.

* * *

There was one very important thing Jim Brass wished he was doing. Actually, there were many things he'd rather be doing that sitting in his dim office awaiting information about the psychopath that had hurt his friend. But more than anything, he wanted to be with that friend at the hospital, where the kid had no reason to be again. The things that happened to him weren't fair.

But Jim was a rational man. He knew he could do Nick a lot more good by keeping on Crane at the station than hovering around the hospital corridors, where he was probably asleep anyway.

Jim sighed, his hand slowly inching towards the phone. He wanted to call one of the others, see how Nick was doing, and tell them he was on his way. But he couldn't get their hopes up by letting them see his name on the caller ID without having any information to offer. He couldn't do that to them.

He pulled his hand back and rubbed his face. He felt like he hadn't slept in weeks.

"Detective Brass?"

Jim looked up, squinting slightly after rubbing his eyes so hard. "Yeah?"

It was a newer officer, one whose name he couldn't immediately place, shifting his weight uncomfortably in the doorway. "He, uh, he says he's ready to talk."

Jim's frown deepened. It seemed to now be permanently affixed to his face. "Just like that?"

The officer shrugged and cracked an uneasy smile. "Guy's got more than one screw loose."

_You can say that again._ Jim nodded. "Okay, I'll be right there."

He hesitated, wanting to go to the holding room where Crane was and hear what he had to say, maybe try to understand what was going on in his head. But, on the other hand, he _didn't_ want to hear what Crane had to say. He wasn't sure it was actually going to help him understand. He would never understand.

* * *

Nigel fidgeted. He couldn't remember handcuffs being this uncomfortable; he was losing the feeling in his hands. He wiggled his fingers, eliciting a cool tingle throughout the digits. At the same time, he was very much aware that no one around him cared about any discomfort he was experiencing.

He didn't know what they wanted him to say. They wouldn't understand, would never understand. Nigel had simply tried to do what Doctor Kendall had been telling him he needed to: purge, get it out of his system. He should have just shot Nick a week ago and gotten it over with, but something had stopped him. He wasn't sure what, but it had saved Nick and condemned himself at the same time. The whole ordeal had been overly dramatic and drawn out, and rather boring.

And after all of that, he didn't feel any better. He would have thought, or at least hoped, that he would feel something different about himself. Something better about himself. But no, he was still just so angry, all the time, at everyone. He wasn't really sure the specifics of the origin of the anger he was constantly plagued with, but Nigel _did_ know it had something to do with Nick.

Just thinking about the man made him angry. That wasn't how it had been when they met. Nigel remembered that Nick had been nice, much nicer than most of the jackasses he'd installed for. They rest just stood there, staring and bothering and rushing him; or ignoring him altogether. But Nick had sat in the room and chatted easily with him like they were old friends. That was the kind of person he was, Nigel thought in disgust.

But he didn't follow through on it. Those people he worked with, were they really so much better than he was? What did they do to deserve to be recognized and treated like friends that he didn't?

And why did he think he was so much better than everyone else?

Those were the questions Nigel had gone into the hospital with. He supposed he came up with answers. Those people were not better than he was. They didn't do anything to deserve to be treated like that, except for the fact they treated Nick better than he deserved.

When Nigel thought about it, and that was most of the time, he thought maybe it was really about him all along, and not Nick. And feeling like he wasn't as important as other people. That was what Doctor Kendall suggested, anyway. That he needed to figure out what it was about himself that he just didn't connect with people on a socially acceptable level, and deal with it. Problem was that Nigel had never really known who he was as a person. He never thought about himself like that. He looked at himself and his status based on the people that he was surrounded with, or more accurately, surrounded himself with.

So, logically, to "deal with it," he needed to stop doing that. And who was the last person he'd really been around?

Nick. That was the problem that he had to eliminate.

This is what he tried to explain to the grim-faced detective seated across from him – he wasn't "crazy," he was just trying to follow through on the therapy Doctor Kendall had suggested would work for him. That he was trying to find himself underneath all of the other people he'd associated with his entire life.

He found out he was much more aggressive than he had ever thought. And angry. Very angry.

"And you directed that anger towards Nick?" the detective asked with a shake of his head, looking disgusted.

"I didn't _have_ to," Nigel answered, leaning forward.

There were immediately officers moving forward with him to pull him back until his back was once again pressed against the chair. He guessed he couldn't blame the man for wanting to keep his distance.

The detective also didn't answer, but seemed to be sitting and stewing in his own growing anger. "You're not going back to that hospital," he said finally. "You're going to prison."

Nigel nodded. "I know."

"Was it worth it?"

Nigel cocked his head, and tried to stretch out his numbing fingers. "Don't know yet. How's Nick?" He couldn't help but smirk.

It perhaps wasn't the smartest thing to say, as the pudgy detective didn't see the humor, and Nigel was momentarily concerned that the two officers wouldn't be able to keep the angry man off of him.

The other man took a deep breath, and stared Nigel down with those hard eyes of his. Nigel didn't so much as flinch.

"He's gonna be good as new," Brass said as firmly as he could, but Nigel detected the crack in his voice.

"I doubt it," Nigel said softly.

* * *

To be continued...


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter Eleven_

It was dark, but that fine with Nick. His head had to be at least three times its normal size, if how heavy it felt was any indication. Heavy, and achy. He didn't have to open his eyes all the way to know he was in the hospital. The smell was very distinct, one he knew all too well.

"Nick?"

Something else he knew all too well; worry in the voice of one of his friends. This one was Warrick. He knew he should say something, and reassure them to his consciousness, but he really didn't want to. He just wanted to roll over, go back to sleep, and wake up in about week, hopefully in his own bed, and hopefully giving his brain enough time to rid itself of everything that had happened in the past few days.

A couple of things stood in the way of Nick's plan. One was the pull in his side when he tried to move, evidence of the stitches now there that probably shouldn't be rolled over onto. The other was the pressure suddenly applied to his arm. Not hard, just enough that he knew it was a hand. They were really worried, and he needed to give them something.

It took a little bit of effort, more than he would have liked, but he managed to open his eyes. They immediately wanted to fall shut again, but he focused on the faces in front of him, and that made him keep them open.

"Hey," Catherine said, and leaned in with a smile.

For some reason, the movement made Nick feel as though his personal space was being invaded, and he tried to shrink back into his pillow. The movement put more pressure on his head and he winced, feeling something tight on the side of his head. Most likely more stitches.

It didn't matter, as Catherine stepped back, looking somewhat hurt. She shook it off instantly and regained her concerned composure. The others, Warrick along with Greg and Sara, took the hint and kept their distance.

"How do you feel?" Sara asked. She'd taken her hand off of his arm, but it was still lying on the blanket, close enough that he could feel it. It bothered him.

Nick swallowed. "Good, I guess," he said, his voice unrecognizable to his own ears, low and scratchy.

They all seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

"The doctor's going to want to know you're awake, he's probably going to want to go over…things with you…"

Warrick's voice started to become fuzzy in his head. Not because of his head, but because all of his attention was focused on how close Sara's hand was to his arm. It wasn't touching him, but he could _feel_ it. The hairs on his arm seemed to stand on end, and he could feel a shiver coming, his arm suddenly covered in goose bumps.

Wincing, Nick tried to shift in his bed, moving his arm closer to his body without drawing attention to it. Sara misunderstood the motion as uncomfortable fidgeting and she placed her hand again on his arm. Probably to calm him, though it had the exact opposite effect.

Nick tried to focus on what Warrick was saying, but it just wasn't working. He was humiliated with himself, feeling this uncomfortable by the closeness of someone he was usually so close with.

"Sara, could you just back up a little?" he spoke up and interrupted, finally having to wrench his arm away from her fingers.

Sara pulled her hand away as though she had been shocked. "The, uh, the doctor will be coming soon. You're not supposed to have this many people in here. Feel better." She stood and turned, but not so quick that he didn't see her swipe a hand under her eyes.

"I'll go…" Greg said, trailing off and following Sara out of the room.

"Nice," Warrick said.

Nick opened his mouth to apologize but couldn't get anything to come out. He had to admit to himself that he felt more relaxed now. He was by no means unaware of the fact he'd hurt Sara; quite the opposite. He didn't know what had overcome him.

Noticing his hesitancy, Catherine lowered herself into the chair from which Sara had just risen. "What's wrong?" She winced at her question.

_Where do I start? _"I don't know," Nick said. "I just…" It didn't take too long for it to feel like Catherine was now too close. He fought the urge to shift again.

Fortunately, being Catherine, she picked up on the undertones of Nick's actions. "Too close?" she asked softly.

Nick averted his eyes and nodded. "Sorry."

"No, man, you don't need to be sorry," Warrick said. "We should have thought of that."

Catherine nodded in agreement. "We'll explain to Sara."

_No,_ Nick wanted to say, _let me._ But he couldn't. For some reason, he just really wanted all of them to leave. He started to turn away, in more than one way, and look at the wall.

He noticed for the first time Grissom in the room, standing in the back corner. He hadn't spoken, he hadn't moved, and Nick hadn't been alerted to his presence until now. He still didn't speak, but just stared at Nick with a look in his eyes that scared him a little. It was very un-Grissom.

Something about the fact he was there surprised Nick. He made eye contact with the older man for only a moment, and then had to break that as well. It felt too much like Grissom was staring at him, and it felt like a look of disappointment in his words and actions over the past few minutes. It probably wasn't, but it felt like it.

Nick sighed and stared at the IV line running into his hand. It was touching him, but at least it wasn't staring at him.

* * *

For Nick, the next day was a blur of too many faces and voices to keep track of. Doctors, nurses, an unpleasantly familiar psych consult, a few visitors, and a call from his mother thrown in just for fun.

He awkwardly reached out to his side to replace the phone, wincing slightly and putting his other hand to his side. He wasn't really up to too much movement yet. The phone was taken gently from his hand and placed in its cradle.

"Thanks," Nick said, settling back against his pillows with a sigh.

Grissom gave him a small smile and returned to his chair, picking up the paper he'd been reading.

He'd stayed with Nick long after the others had left. The two hadn't said much, and the silence was becoming nerve-wracking. The only constant noise in the room was the television, currently tuned to the Food Network. It was oddly calming. Nick's mind was racing to fast to get any of the doctor-recommended rest he needed.

There were things Nick needed to talk about, needed to know, but he hadn't been able to find the words. It was as though Grissom understood, and that was why he was still in the room, just waiting for Nick to be ready to talk. He was being there for him, but giving Nick the space he needed at that same time.

"Are your parents coming out?" Grissom asked, not taking his eyes off of the paper.

Nick wanted to roll his eyes at the panicked nature of his parents. But when he thought about it, he really couldn't blame them. He'd always managed to give them some reason to worry.

"Yeah, in a few days," he answered.

Grissom looked up as if to ask, why the wait?

"Can't get away from work." Nick gave a half-hearted smile, and thought about the real reason. "I don't think they want to see me in the hospital again." It was understandable, given the circumstances surrounding last time he was here. It was just as well, as he wasn't sure he could deal with it himself.

"You'll be home in a day or two," Grissom said, turning a page of the paper.

"Yeah." Nick wished he could just skip to that part. He hated hospitals. And with no one but Gris for company? Not exactly relaxing. The others had all said they would be stopping by to check on him sometime, but he hadn't seen anyone else in yet. The lab must have been busy.

The twinge in his side hadn't gone away, and Nick's eyes ticked over to the stand holding and dispensing his pain medication. It was set to dispense a certain amount every now and then, an interval determined by the doctor, and not by him. He did, however, have the "happy button." All he had to do was push it for a dose. His thumb tensed on the button, but he tossed it aside with a small, disgusted sigh. He didn't want to have to rely on the medicine, no matter how much he probably deserved it at the moment.

No matter how discreet he'd tried to be, Grissom still noticed. "Hurting?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

_No,_ Nick thought. _I'm just fine and dandy. _"A little," he said. "It's cool."

Grissom didn't seem to be particularly satisfied with his response, but let him get away with it. His attention went back to the paper, and Nick wondered if he was actually reading it, or just using it as a way to avoid the inevitable conversation Nick knew they were going to have to have.

Nick cleared his throat and shifted again, trying to find something resembling a comfortable position. "You, uh, you don't have to stay. I'm sure the lab needs you, and I'm probably just gonna sleep, anyway." The last part was a lie, but he hoped it sounded natural.

Grissom paused in his reading and glanced up at Nick for only a moment before looking back down at the paper. "The lab's fine."

"I mean, they're already one man down, I'm sure that – "

"They'll be fine, Nick."

Nick looked down at his hands and thought about how pathetic the two of them were. They were both waiting for the other to talk first. He knew Grissom had some, if not all, of the answers to the questions he had about what happened and why, and Grissom was surely waiting for Nick to talk specifics. He'd done very well avoiding the subject altogether, pretending he was in for some sort of extended routine check-up…resulting in stitches and a bag of blood.

_Screw it, _he thought with a sigh, and opened his mouth to speak.

"We cleaned your house," Grissom said suddenly. His voice was quiet and full of hesitation. He finally set the paper aside, and met Nick's eyes cautiously.

Nick slowly allowed his mouth to shut and sat back, dumbfounded. He'd forgotten to think about that. "What, uh, what did you find?" He knew Grissom wasn't talking about dusting and vacuuming.

Grissom started to shake his head to dismiss Nick's question. "It doesn't mat – "

"_What_ did you find?" Nick repeated forcefully, without the stammer of his first attempt. He was going to be out of the hospital as early as the next morning, and didn't want to go home until he knew exactly what Crane had had there. Had he been watching him again? Obviously. Grissom's hesitation told him the man had information he knew Nick wouldn't want to hear.

A shiver went down Nick's spine, causing him to twitch and wince again. Thankfully, he heard the beep of the stand as the long-awaited shot of pain medication was pushed into his IV line.

Despite Nick's forceful tone, and the glare he tried to fix on his face, Grissom sat silent. "You really should be resting," he said, and started to rise out of the chair.

So, Grissom was going to pull the "patient" thing out on Nick. Well, he had something to use, too.

"Do I need to go to Archie?" Nick asked, and instantly wished he could take it back. The look that came over Grissom's face was one he'd never seen before, and wasn't prepared for it at all.

Grissom looked away at some invisible spot on the wall. He shook his head slowly. "No," he said softly. "You don't need to go to Archie." He sank back into his chair.

When his eyes met Nick's, Nick had to fight to not look away. He almost couldn't believe he'd stooped that low to get Grissom to tell him what was going on. He guessed that was just how crazy Crane made him.

Grissom cleared his throat uncomfortably. "There were cameras," he said finally. "And microphones."

Nick bit his lip and nodded, having figured as much. "Where?" he asked without thinking. He really didn't want to know. "Never mind," he amended quickly, cutting off Grissom's response.

Grissom nodded and sat, watching him. People were always watching him. It made Nick's skin crawl. He again focused on his hands, the IV line that was running into his right one.

"On second thought," Grissom started, and Nick couldn't help but snort. Here was Grissom, going to cut out once again as soon as things got tough.

He glared up at Grissom, opposing emotions clashing into each other inside of him. He didn't want Grissom to just sit there at stare at him, but he didn't necessarily want to be left along in the cold, white hospital room, either.

Nick's stubborn, defiant nature won over, and he gestured to the door. "Go ahead." His head was starting to hurt anyway.

"I was going to say," Grissom said, raising his eyebrows, "maybe you _should_ go ahead and talk to Archie when you get out, because he could walk through any questions you have better than I could."

Nick looked down, feeling his face flush. "Oh."

He felt like an idiot. Grissom was trying to help him, in his own special Grissom way, and Nick was so quick to jump to the conclusion his supervisor was trying to get out of the situation.

Grissom was right; he did have questions for the A/V tech. Like what kind of equipment Crane had used and how he had got it into his house. At the same time, Nick just wanted to pretend the whole thing had never happened. He just wanted to go home, go back to work, get back into the swing of things and never hear the name Nigel Crane again.

First, Nick wasn't going to be able to go home until at least the next day, possibly the day after. The doctor had said he was concerned about the trauma to his head, and wanted to observe his concussion a bit longer. Second, he wasn't going to be back to work for even longer. Probably a couple of weeks. _Hopefully_ a couple of weeks, though he was sure Grissom was going to try to get him to take off longer.

And third…well, the problem with that little wish was that Nick worked in the system, and knew how these things worked. Plus the fact he'd been through this with Crane before. He would have to give a statement, which he was mildly surprised he hadn't had to do yet, and there would be other interviews, talking with the prosecutor, and the big one – the inevitable trial. Where Nick would once again have to sit and see Nigel Crane staring at him as he recounted to a judge and jury what had happened.

Staring at him. Watching him.

Grissom was still watching him. Not knowing how long he'd been lost in his thoughts, Nick gave the other man a smile small.

"You okay?" Grissom inquired.

"I guess," Nick answered, as honestly as he could. He was tired and sore and his head felt much heavier than it should. He was starting to have trouble keeping it up, and fell back against his pillows with a defeated sigh.

There wasn't a comfortable way for him to lie to sleep, part of the reason he hadn't been able to nap at all during the day. His head really had been knocked around too much. He couldn't lay it flat, couldn't lie on the left side. No amount of pain killers seemed to take the ache out his temple and ear. Nick settled for twisting just slightly and looking to the right, which aggravated the stitches in his side, but he found that to be more bearable.

It also meant he was stuck with nowhere to look but at Grissom. Watching Grissom watch him was going to be a lousy way to pass the afternoon. Not to mention stressful.

It was quiet in the room for a long time. A nurse came and went, and Grissom answered two calls from the lab. Nick tried to shut his eyes and get some rest, but he still just couldn't…rest.

In a move probably surprising himself as much as it did Nick, Grissom scraped his chair closer, right up to the side of Nick's bed, and put a hesitant hand on his arm. Nick instinctively flinched and tried to pull it away, but Grissom increased the pressure, holding Nick's arm firmly.

"You're going to be fine," he said, gently but firm at the same time.

Nick looked at him with wide eyes and nodded, though not quite sure he believed him.

"Nick," Grissom said louder, shaking his arm slightly. "Listen to me. You're going to be fine."

"I know," Nick said. He didn't, and the crack in his voice betrayed that.

"He's not going to get out this time," Grissom said.

Nick couldn't respond to that. He wasn't so sure anymore. They'd let Crane off easy last time around, storing him away in some rehabilitation center rather than the cell he deserved.

"How do you know?" he asked, his voice coming out as low as a whisper.

Grissom smiled. "That's my job, Nick. I know things."

Maybe he was crazy, or even a little bit delusional. It might have even been the concussion, but something about Grissom's words made Nick feel better.

* * *

"Tina, babe, have you see my keys?" Warrick called as he clomped down the staircase and into the kitchen.

"Why don't you look where you left them?" came the response.

Warrick rolled his eyes but grinned at his feisty, always-with-a-retort wife. "The problem is that I don't know where that _is_," he said, leaning across Tina to grab a piece of toast from the counter. Breakfast time, even though it was technically early afternoon.

"Hey, hey," she scolded, tapping his hand lightly with a wooden spoon. "If you're gonna eat, do it at the table."

"Can't," he answered through a mouthful. "I gotta run."

Any other day, he would have been ecstatic that his and Tina's days off ended up being the same, but today, he already had plans.

"Can't go anywhere without your keys," Tina said is a teasing voice.

Warrick swallowed and gave her a shake of his head. "Always playin'," he said, but sat down at the table.

"How's Nick doing?" Tina turned back to the counter with a satisfied smile and continued her preparations of a breakfast that was much too much food for just the two of them. But that was Tina; she worked things out through food.

"Haven't really talked to him since yesterday. Figured he needed his rest."

"He does," Tina said knowingly. And pointedly.

"I won't keep him out past curfew," Warrick responded sarcastically.

"Don't take him out anywhere," Tina said sternly. "You make him rest."

"Yes ma'am."

Tina grabbed up two heaping plates and set one in front of Warrick and the other in front of the chair she slid into. Once there, the control she'd had in the kitchen was gone, and she stared at the plate.

Warrick lowered his toast to his plate and gazed across the table at his wife, his eyes sad.

Tina seemed to be able to feel his eyes on the top of her head and looked up, forcing a small smile. "I'm fine, baby. Don't look at me like that." Despite her words her eyes ticked over to the living room. To the plastered-over hole in the wall and the new patch in the carpet. Warrick had made sure to cover those reminders as soon as he could. He wasn't going to need them to remember what had happened.

Tina's hand seemed automatically drawn to the fading bruise on her cheek and Warrick saw tears form in her eyes. He cocked his head and quickly moved to her side, wrapping his arms around her.

"Really," she protested, leaning into his arms, a few tears slipping out, "I'm fine."

"I know," Warrick said softly. But no matter what everyone was saying, he just couldn't help thinking about how not fine everything was.

Tina calmed down after only a few moments, and while Warrick didn't feel great about leaving her, he promised her that he would be back soon. She gave up his car keys and waved to him from the door with a smile. He just hoped it stayed there.

Warrick grabbed his cell phone and punched in a speed dial he called often. He rubbed his face, frustrated, when he got a voicemail message.

"Nick, hey, I don't know why you're not picking up." He glanced at his watch. "I know I'm running a little late, but I'm on my way over."

Warrick hesitated before disconnecting the call. Over the past few months, he'd always felt a little uneasy when Nick didn't answer the phone, and the events of the last few days hadn't helped matters any. There was not a place in the world Nick needed to be besides lying on his couch channeling surfing.

Warrick would be lying if he said he didn't push a little harder than normal on the accelerator as he drove to Nick's house.

He was relieved to see Nick's truck parked in the driveway. He'd been released from the hospital, but Warrick still didn't want him driving anywhere by himself just yet.

The day was slowly working its way into the mid-afternoon hours, the high sun shining warm and bright, but the blinds in Nick's living room window were shut.

Warrick didn't even knock, as he hadn't for years. He reached for the knob and was surprised to find it locked. Frowning, he now knocked on the door. "Nick? It's me, open up."

Warrick heard not only one, but two locks sliding out of place, and his frown deepened.

The door opened too quickly, and Nick's attempt to look casual and natural failed. His friendly "Hey, what's up, man?" contrasted harshly with his still paler-than-normal complexion and he wasn't standing to his full height, but hunched slightly, his arm held tight to side, but like he was trying not to make his discomfort too obvious.

"You didn't answer your phone," Warrick said. It even sounded like an accusation to his own ears.

"Yeah," Nick said sheepishly, glancing into his living room. "I was, uh, busy. Sorry." He held the door tightly in place only a foot or so open, not giving Warrick any room to step further into his house.

Warrick was taken aback by his friend's sudden lack of hospitality. When they'd spoken the night before, Nick had seemed…relieved at the prospect of Warrick's coming over to spend his evening off. Warrick knew how much Nick hated being stuck home alone with nothing to do.

Warrick attempted to take a step forward, but Nick's hold on the door tightened. He looked up at his friend, whose smile was as tight as his grip on the door.

"You know, I'm actually not feeling like company right now," Nick said, looking somewhere over Warrick's shoulder. "I should have called you, I'm sorry…"

Warrick wasn't buying it. "What's up, Nick?"

"I just…" he trailed off, and once again looked behind him, back into his house.

Warrick could tell something was up, and he frowned at his friend. "Nick," he said. The subtext of the one word was "let me in."

Nick made as if to respond, but one look at the resolved expression on Warrick's face seemed to set him right, and he shook his head, stepping back to let Warrick in. He stood aside and seemed to be very interested in his shoes.

Warrick didn't have to take more than one step into the house to understand why he hadn't wanted him to come in. Nick's field kit was lying open on the counter, and various things were sitting out, including his flashlight, which could probably account for the closed blinds. It seemed as though everything usually stored in the cabinets of his kitchen was sitting out on either the counter or table, and Warrick assumed there were things on the floor as well. Likewise, in the living room, each and every item usually cramming the bookcase next to Nick's entertainment center – every book, video, DVD, and other random items – was lying on the floor. Some were in stacks and others in careless piles.

_Oh, Nicky,_ Warrick thought. _I thought Grissom told you we did this already. _ That hadn't been a pleasant team experience.

"Lost track of time," Nick muttered to explain the mess, and Warrick turned to look at him, his mouth hanging open.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Nick said, stepping forward. He moved into the living room and started picking things up.

Warrick noticed how he was favoring his side. _I don't even know where to start._

"You're supposed to be resting," he said, crouching next to Nick. He started to pick up the various DVDs strewn about.

"I know."

"So what happened?" Warrick started to put things back while Nick sat back on the floor with a small wince and looked around the room. He laughed lightly, and attached to it was just a hint of hysteria.

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "I got home yesterday, and I just…" he trailed off.

"You know what? You don't have to explain yourself to me, man." Warrick paused in his cleaning and stepped across the piles to open the blinds.

It was as though Nick didn't hear him. He kept talking. "And I know Grissom said you guys already _cleaned_, and I know that...that Nigel is at PD, is locked up, but I just couldn't, I don't know, rest until I knew for myself he wasn't here."

Warrick understood what Nick was talking about. He knew Nigel Crane wasn't physically in Nick's house, but his presence was still there. Nick was somehow trying to find a way to clean that Crane-feeling out of his house.

Nick continued. "This is crazy, isn't it? It's never gonna go away, it's just going to be one thing after another."

Warrick know he wasn't just talking about Nigel Crane anymore. He stayed silent, figuring the best thing he could do for Nick right now was to just let him talk through things. _You can fight it, man_, he silently told his friend.

"I think I'm losing it," Nick said, but Warrick knew he was feeling better. His tone had that joking-Nick hint to it. Maybe his silent message had gone through.

"Nah, man," Warrick said with a smile. He tossed a picture frame to Nick. "You lost it a long time ago."

Nick smiled back and slowly got to his feet. "It'll be fine," he said, and it was first time in months Warrick had heard that word and known it wasn't a brush-off.

"How do you know?" Warrick asked with a challenging smile.

"Cause Grissom said so." Nick placed the frame in its place on the bookshelf, and Warrick helped him to put his living room, if not his life, back together.

* * *

"Thanks, Warrick." Gil hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He felt a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth.

The short conversation with Warrick, who'd just left Nick's house, had made him feel there was actually some validity to the words he'd said to Nick in the hospital. He had been afraid Nick wouldn't have taken his words to heart.

The lab had seemed excruciatingly quiet that night, with Nick out and Warrick taking a night off. He'd been hesitant to do so, but Gil and Catherine had combined to form a united front and insisted upon it. They felt he was still far too emotional for his head to be one hundred percent in the job.

It was, thankfully, a slow night. Sara and Greg had been given a softball B and E, and Catherine had offered to take another homicide/suspicious circs solo so Gil could get some things done. And he definitely had things to do. Actually, just one thing. He grabbed his jacket and flipped off the light to his office on the way out.

The station was just one building over from the crime lab. It was a chilly evening, and Gil shoved his hands in his jacket pockets on the walk to PD. He nodded in greeting to several officers in the halls as he made his way to Jim's office. A short ten minutes later, he was sitting in one of the blank concrete-block walled interrogation rooms. At his request, and with Jim's assistance, any recording equipment had been removed, and while there were two officers at the door, there wasn't one in the room.

Gil had never had such trouble controlling his emotions as he did at that moment. He'd always been one with a very active superego, keeping all of his instincts in check, but it was really having a hard time combating the instinct to beat the life out of the man sitting across from him. It wasn't a feeling he was accustomed to feeling.

"Did you want something?" Nigel Crane asked with a smirk, his cuffed hands moving about in some nervous tick.

Gil smiled patiently. If Crane wanted to get a rise out of him, he wasn't going to get it. "I wanted to let you know, personally, that you failed."

Nigel frowned, but he was mocking him. "At what?"

"Before, you wanted Nick to think you knew him, that you were his friend. If that were true, then you would have known that Nick is much too strong, and that he would overcome anything you put him through."

"You really believe that?"

Gil frowned. "I know it."

Crane sat back, his fidgeting halted.

"And you're not ever going to be anywhere near him again," Gil continued in a low, even tone.

Crane's eyes went to the thick glass separating the room they were in from the adjoining observation room. "Is this on record or something?"

Gil gave a slight shake of his head. This was just for him, for his own closure.

"I got out last time, you know," Crane said, his voice taking on a low, threatening tone. His eyes ticked around to the corners of the room. "I play my cards right again, say all the right things, and it'll happen again."

Gil smiled a small, tight smile. "I doubt it."

* * *

The End


End file.
